The author does not claim to a kid.
When I was fifteen, I was sent to an exclusive boarding school for boys. There was a uniform code of dress, excellent facilities of all kinds, the food was good, and the boys were decent blokes. Occasionally someone would be the butt of a practical joke, but there was no bullying, and any teasing was mild and good-natured. Many of us smoked and we'd occasionally get drunk. Shoplifting was not unknown and once in a blue moon there'd be fights with boys from the nearby town. One thing that contradicted the popular perception of boys' boarding schools, however, was the universal homophobia, an active absence, so to speak, as if the very existence of homosexuality was not merely distasteful but unthinkable. `Not normal' was the accepted wisdom. In the years I was there, I never saw nor heard anything. Even masturbation was very private, never talked about. Perhaps things went on among the younger boys, I never knew, and even homo-erotic banter seemed absent.
At the age of thirteen, before coming to this school, and without really understanding what it meant, I discovered I was homosexual. I had namely fallen in love with another boy. He sat in front of me in class. With intense sexual desire, I'd study his hair, his ears, his neck, his hands, his bottom, everything. If I looked too hard at his naked body in the showers, I'd get a stiffy. All I wanted to do was suck his long, slim penis with its pretty foreskin, caress his bottom, and have him fill my mouth with sperm, and then sleep in his arms. My desire was, however, restricted to only him. I saw other boys undressed in the changing rooms, in their little shorts for gym, and naked in the showers, but no one else aroused any desire in me. Being `one of the boys' was, however, paramount, so I was forever walking on eggs, fearful of giving myself away.
The first year in my new school, I didn't fall in love with anyone. The second year, I fell in love with one boy at a distance. He was two classes above me and therefore entirely unapproachable. The third year towards the end, I became friends with a house fellow who was in a lower form. He was great fun, a real lad, of very good family, with a lean body and striking face. A few times, he mentioned cases of boys who when younger had engaged in homo-erotic behaviour, and was indignant about it being `not normal', I wanted to hear more, but kept quiet, and pined in secrecy. I never fantasized about us doing anything, but every night when I went into the dormitory for bed (an hour after he did), I'd look over at his form under his sheets and wish we were sharing a bed. Again, my desire was monogamic.
The last year was very different because I was now a dining-hall monitor. At my table, I was surrounded by fourteen year olds from another house. Many of the boys my age were aloof towards the younger ones. But I thought many of the youngsters enchanting, and loved talking with them and listening to their boyish banter. Gradually I became quite popular with them, and young boys who didn't even sit at my table would greet me.
One such fourteen-year-old boy I fell in love with. He was best friend with a boy at my table. He was a rangy brunet with hair falling to his shoulders, blue eyes, a wide mouth with wet, pink lips, and creases at the sides when he smiled. His signature giggles always thrilled me, sexually. The boy at my table said he was well hung, and he had a lovely little bottom atop long and slender legs. He was gorgeous in that uniquely boyish way, not in the least girlish and then again not many either. I was truly glad he neither sat at my table nor lived at my house, because I was so infatuated with him, I was sure I would have given myself away. I was also glad that he sat behind me in the dining hall so I wouldn't give myself away by too much gloating. He would greet me but I kept a distance, fearful of my own desire for him. Once I did give in to my desire and suggested we play squash together. But I played abominably. Rather than look at the ball, I looked at his bare thighs, his tight little shorts with his little bum and bulge in front, his face, in short, everything about him. So I discontinued the sham.
Then there was Frederic. He refused to answer to Fred or Freddy or any other diminutive, so he became known as Redrick, which soon became Red Prick, which he again refused to answer to, and then he became just plain Frederic. A brainy thirteen-year-old slip of a boy, with fine shoulder-length hair the colour of lemons. Bright blue eyes and a lippy mouth, rosy in a thin face. Again, he wasn't in pretty in any kind of girlish way but pretty in a purely boyish, but his prettiness lay very much in his manner, the cute way in which he'd charm even the grimmest skip with good-natured cheek and giggles. And it wasn't a put-on, he wasn't out to get anything from you, except your attention, and he didn't really care if you paid more or less attention to him. His manner was such that you always felt you were the subject of some practical joke of his. He'd always give me a cheerful greeting when he met me, and sometimes add a homo-erotic innuendo: `You're looking at my bum, yes you are, looking at my bum!' `I love you, I need you! I'm coming to your bed tonight!' He always cried these things in the safety of a crowd, and his audience would laugh. I just smiled and said nothing. I couldn't begin a sexual banter with him, could I? But he did make me look at him with sexual eyes, and he was a lovely little article. The little butt in those tight jeans was mouth-watering. And once he ran past me in his little white gym shorts: `You're lusting, lusting for my bum!' And I was.
(This was, of course, before the `look-at-me-I'm-a-wanker' look, before the `I-dare-you-to-die-laughing' look became international; before the modern day sexism of boys having to conceal every suggestion that they're boys, with great big sacks posing as trousers and shorts. And the most idiotic ever conceived, swimming costumes that reach below the boys' knees, making it look as if their legs had been chopped off, and always several layers to conceal the horrid horrid bulge, make them look like a right lot of tossers with flat crotches like girls or eunuchs. Boys hadn't been brainwashed into super self-consciousness about and disdain for their boyishness. No, in those days, it was either trousers that reached below the ankles or shorts that reached no further than the upper thigh or mid-upper-thigh, and even shorter, like James Bond in Dr No. Knee-length shorts were for the Americans, and they were called Bermudas. And American absurdities such as `short-shorts' and `brief briefs' didn't exist, nor the modern and even more inane `long-shorts' ― a complete oxymoron, like `a capacious tanga' or `generous briefs' or `loose tights'. Oxymorons are, of course, part and parcel of Political Correctness, much as they were in Stalinist Russia. Before that, tall was tall, short was short, brief was brief, fat was fat, and thin was thin. Life was less politicized, less phony, and less complicated. Everywhere it was bulges and cute arses. Nobody batted an eyelid at nudity, sometimes a teacher would even talk to us while were in the showers, face to face. If someone streaked through the school yard, everyone laughed, he was reprimanded and that was that, no police, no courts of law, no sex-offender list for twenty years, no affectation of outrage at what was merely a boyish prank.)
Then one day towards the end of my last term, after our evening meal (with the beautiful evenings of early summer, and our final exams looming), most of the boys had gone ahead, I was ambling along the shaded way leading from the refectory, and Frederic appeared before me from behind a tree, a smile on his face, alone. I stopped with a smirk, awaiting some facetiousness.
`Last night I rubbed my crotch with my pillow, imagining it was you... pleasing me... and it worked!' He stood there before me with an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face, looking strangely vulnerable, his hands at chest height, fingers fiddling.
What was this? Did he know? Was it a practical joke? And I remained silent, poker face. Neither yea nor nay. I just looked at him, and then he smiled more widely: `You made me ejaculate!' He looked at my and then turned and ran away. He didn't grin mischievously, he smiled warm and friendly, strangely anxious. I was enchanted and bewildered.
It wasn't long before the younger boys' exams were over and they would leave for the summer vac, and in the short time that remained, he never spoke to me again, never greeted me again. In fact, I don't think I saw him again. But he was very often on my mind. Had that lovely lad declared his love to me? And why me? I was pretty sure I'd never given anything away. And while I was tall and slim, with light blue eyes behind tortoiseshell spectacles, dark eye brows and a mop of tawny hair, while two boys my own age (and as straight as you could get) on separate occasions told me I had a `tight fuckable arse', and while girls for years had told me I had a gorgeous arse and legs, I didn't consider myself one of the good-lookers. So why me? Did everyone consider me gay even though no one ever said anything? There was nothing gay about my behaviour, I knew that. So Frederic's little address gave rise to much worrisome chewing of the cud, worry that I might be rumbled ― what we now call being `outed'. That would be disastrous. From being `one of the boys' I'd be relegated to Coventry, an object of ridicule and contempt. Nonetheless, frequent in mind were, of course, also fantasies about what he and I could do together. Snogging in the cloisters, his wet lips sliding down my phallus, his little buttocks in my hands, my lips pressing against his anus, nuzzling the bulge in his white underpants. But I saw him no more, that is, until almost a year later, when I met him on a train.
He was in a compartment with two other boys, all of them in their school uniform. They had just arrived from the school for the Easter holidays. I knocked on the glass and waved at him. He got up to greet me, and I was so overjoyed to see him, I grabbed his hand with both hands, stroking his arm. Then I realized what I was doing, and blushed, and told him I was sitting a couple of doors down, if he wanted to chat. Once the train began to move, he appeared, but there were other people there, so I took him to the restaurant car and ordered tea. We talked like old friends, and I found myself ogling like a teenage lecher. He had grown but was still elfin and delicate, his rosy lips still kissable, his lemon hair still long and swaying as he walked ahead of me, and I electrified once again to see his lovely little bum rocking under the thin grey material of his trousers, under the edge of his blue blazer.
My father had arranged for me to spend a year working in construction before I began studying law. `Mollycoddled for too long. Good for you.' I agreed entirely, and was quite pleased to be meeting another kind of people and doing hard manual work, although I did make use of the privilege of an expat uncle's pied à terre in town. The uncle lived abroad and hardly ever turned up, so I was my own boss. I told all this to Frederic, and when he asked if he could visit, I joyously agreed, with sexual hopes, of course, but not designs as such.
That was how I found myself some two weeks later, handing a glass of Buck's Fizz to the gorgeous fourteen-year-old Frederic sitting on the little sofa, in tight jeans that hugged his curves, a crisp white shirt and a navy blue tie with yellow polka-dots. They matched his eyes and his hair, I observed. `That's the idea.' And he giggled. I had already begun drinking at the age of fourteen, and now at the age of nineteen, I could down a fair amount comfortably, although I didn't fact like hard liquor. Usually, it was beer, tonight a couple of Buck's Fizzes and then red wine with dinner. In my innocence, I had not reckoned on Frederic's being almost five years younger than I was, nor on his not coming from such an alcoholic background as mine. It was only after dinner, when he stopped drinking the red wine I was plying him with, that I realized something was wrong. He'd gone silent, and suddenly stumbled out into the corridor, obviously about to vomit. Some red goo had already spilt out of his mouth onto the carpet, and quickly I helped him into the bathroom, where he kneeled over the lavatory, and began to throw up. It was all reddish because of the wine. I made him stick his finger down his throat to make him vomit more and again he retched up more gooey red vomit. A few more dribbles and a lot of panting, and then he said he was done. I got him some water to rinse his mouth and drink a bit. Then I proceeded to strip his clothes off.
`That'sh why you got me shozzzzled, that'sh why!' he giggled blurrily. `That'sh why! T'wash all plannn-ned!' I didn't know what to say, but I did tell him I needed to get him under a cold shower. He giggled lasciviously as I undressed him. Taking his clothes off was erotic, especially when I unbuckled his belt, and undid and unzipped his tight jeans, and with great difficulty tugged them off, to reveal slender naked thighs and white underpants hugging his lovely little bum and an obvious tent in front. As I slid them off, he giggled and giggled, by which time I, of course, I too had a hard-on, and slavered at the sight of his lovely erection, not small, with two freckles and a smattering of pubes.; feeling his nudity as I manoeuvred him into the bathtub was also erotic. But it was entirely unplanned, and I was far more concerned with his physical welfare than with his scrumptious naked body. I turned on the cold shower and left him in the spray. I folded his clothes, pressing my face into his white underpants, still warm, smelling of beautiful boy. His clothes went into the bedroom. Then I stood and watched him naked and bent over in the bathtub, with the cold water running off him. After a full five minutes, I turned off the shower and dried him, and in a fireman's lift carried him naked into my bedroom, my hand on his luscious thigh. There he was, sprawled naked on my bed, and all I had to do was slide back his foreskin, lower my head, open my mouth, and suck. I could suck him in front, behind, top, bottom, everywhere, he was out cold. Instead, I looked for the voluminous army shirt I had in a drawer somewhere, with long tails. He was still conscious but only smiling weakly and mumbling. Somehow, I got him into the shirt, with some involuntary and thrilling groping. Far too big the shirt was for him, but how cute he looked in it! I folded the sleeves up to his wrists, tucked the shirt tails in between his legs, and then tucked him under the sheets, and proceeded to dry his hair with a blow drier, thrills running through me as I ran my fingers through his silken locks. How I wanted to raise the shirt to his waist and make love to his body, but it felt so wrong. I left him covered and gave him only a soft kiss on the mouth, feeling slightly guilty afterwards.
It was still early, so I cleaned up and then settled down to finish the wine and watched a movie on the TV. Every now and then I'd slip into the bedroom and sit on the bed and watch his pretty face asleep. Each time the urge was there, to pull aside the sheets, lift up his shirt and make love to him, hold him in my arms and kiss his pretty mouth, but each time I managed to restrict myself to a peck on his cheek, and stroking his lemon yellow hair. At about midnight, I climbed into the bed in a pair of boxers pulled out of a suitcase, accustomed as I was now to sleep in the nude. He didn't wake up as I moved him off centre, and he didn't wake when I let an arm embrace him, and kissed him on the cheek. How I wanted to slip my hand up underneath the shirt! I pulled the sheets over us both, listened to his breath, and soon fell asleep.
I woke in the night to find us facing each other, Frederic's forehead on my collarbone and his hand on the small of my back. My hand was on his bare buttock, the shirt having ridden up to his waist. Even though I dared not caress his buttock, I could feel how soft and smooth and bouncy it was. His breath was warm on my breast. My penis swelled slowly, shifting up my hip as it did so, and I could barely keep myself from sighing, from nuzzling my face in his hair, and kissing him. Slowly I disengaged my thoughts from him and fell asleep again. The next time I woke, there was faint light coming from outside. Faint traffic noise too. Frederic's head was again below mine, this time his hair touching my nose and mouth. God! His tender hand was in my fly. My penis was steel hard and leaking and he was stroking it ever so softly. Was he afraid to be found out? What should I do? His breath was ragged. Was he masturbating himself? Suddenly, he stopped and pulled his hand away. Had he discovered I was awake? I grunted and turned to lie on my back, pretending to settle back to sleep. He did not move. His head lay in the crook of my arm. He had removed his hand. Softly he laid his arm across my chest and nuzzled into me and we fell asleep. The next time I woke up, Frederic was climbing out of bed and padded into the bathroom and passed water, the door open. When he returned, he saw me watch him, and he blushed with a sort of shy goofy smile. Then he climbed over me and under the sheets again. I turned to face him and we smiled at each other, one face on either side of the pillow. How adorable he was with bed hair!
`Good morning, ducks.' Good morning, duckling. That was the first time he called me `ducks' and I called him duckling. And then we lay smiling, silently watching each other. Magic. Was he going to make a move, put his hand back where it had been only hours earlier?
He pulled at the shirt. `What's this?' An army shirt. He'd gotten very drunk, and I'd put him to bed. It was huge, like a nightshirt. He'd seen a picture of a boy in a nightshirt in an old book of nursery rhymes. What did I sleep in? I slept nude, but in the winter that shirt. It wasn't as big on me though. Why not pyjamas? After sleeping in the nude, pyjamas felt oppressive. And a shirt? It was nice and loose where it mattered. Like James Bond. James Bond slept in a pyjama coat only. Frederic stuck his hand under the sheet and hummed the James Bond theme, moved his hand around his loins, and grinned, `Yeah, nice and loose.' And he giggled again. His giggles made me breathless with desire, they were so adorable.
`You took my clothes off and put this shirt on me.' I nodded.
`Why the shirt?' Why not? If I'd let him sleep in the nude that might have been misunderstood, and if I'd put his underpants on, that would've involved some pretty intimate touching, might have been misunderstood even more.
Frederic hummed the more sinister part of the James Bond theme: `Duddle la tang, duh duddle duddle la tang, duh duddle deeeeedle daddle dang! Dah dah dee daaah dah dah dah, dah daah dah dah dang!' Then he laughed out loud, a lovely, lovely loud laughter. And we laughed and I was besotted, besotted.
`You took off my undies, didn't you? Tee-hee.' Yes, it's much easier to remove someone's underpants than to put them on.
He grinned naughtily. `Did you rape me?' Whatever did he mean?
He laughed. `Tee-hee, should I check my arse? Did you take advantage of me in my stupor?' Check his arse? Take advantage?
`Tee-hee, did you stick it up my bum? Molest me, suck my willy?' I chuckled. Was that why he came to dinner? For me to suck his willy and stick it up his bum? And he blushed, his thin face pink on the pillow. Then he laughed out loud, a lovely, lovely loud laughter. And now I blushed. And both of us blushing, we watched each other kindly, both it seemed, not knowing what now. I imagined the silence to be almost palpable, but kindly. I felt a quiver in my belly, the battle between anxiety and expectation. I became intensely aware of his hand touching my hand, soft, soft it was, and a tingle in my groin. He clasped my hand and pulled it up onto the pillow. Played with my fingers.
`So big... look!' He compared his delicate hands with mine. Was the innuendo deliberate or innocent? He clasped my hand in his hands and grinned.
`Your hands are calloused, like a real workman. Mine, soft as a girl's, tee-hee.' Soft as a boy's, I said, soft as a boy's. And he rubbed his hands over mine. So soft and smooth they were! Felt a prolonged tingle in my groin. God, how I wanted him now! If he'd been a girl, I'd have known exactly what to do. Just lean forward and kiss her on the lips. But a boy? Boys were not part of a boy's curriculum. Make sure always to behave `normally'.
Did he want breakfast? He gazed at me, and then nodded and let go of my hand. Eros had fled the room. I fled into the bathroom and took a shower and then ran down to buy some bread and butter and eggs and bacon. My heart pounding as I marched along, was he as desirous as I, was he as unsure as I, was he waiting for me to pounce as I was waiting for him? He'd caressed me in the night. Boyish curiosity or love? I could corner him by asking him about it, but that would be beastly. Let him set the pace, or? Was this what boys suffered when they fell in love with a girl? The travails of wooing?
When I returned, he'd taken a shower, made the bed, and tidied up. I noticed that I was now devouring every detail of him with intense sexual desire. How things had changed. He seemed no longer out of reach, yet I didn't know how to reach out, did I? Oh, his pretty face, the little nose turned up, the little nostrils, the freckles, the way he brushed his hair aside, the little ears, the pouty lips rosier now with the grease of the food, the little hands holding the cutlery, even the little fingernails so fine, the little bum! He had to get home. I walked him down to the bus-stop, the slight figure beside me, as if he were my girl friend, as if we were lovers, as if we'd made love all night. Then again, we didn't hold hands, didn't flirt, didn't kiss when we parted. Oh, why hadn't I done anything? Why hadn't he made a move; he was interested wasn't he? On the other hand, I was safe, thank God. I was safe, ensconced in the closet. Nothing to hide. Went home and dived into bed to sniff the bed linen where he had lain. Could I find a hair from his pretty head, a pretty pubes?
The Easter holidays passed, and the summer half-term, and the summer holidays arrived and no word from Frederic. He didn't want me to call him at home, and I didn't have his number anyway. Then, three weeks later, one Sunday morning at about three thirty, my buzzer went. I had been at a long and boozy family dinner, had a few drinks in a bar, and was in bed having a wank, dreaming of Frederic. He was on the buzzer and I let him in. Heard him walk up the stairs and then he appeared on the landing, in drag. I had slipped on my underpants and dressing gown, and stood at the door. He trotted up to me in black patent-leather platform shoes, and stood before me, smiling. He had a carry-all in one hand. I chuckled, genuinely tickled to see him. `Hello, ducks.' On his tiptoes, he leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth: `Tee-hee.' Wobbled in platform shoes. Hello, duckling, duckling in drag. He laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely loud laugh. That kiss on the mouth made my swollen loins tingle. He'd never kissed me before.
`I've just come from a fancy dress. Missed the last train.' The last train was hours ago, so he was lying, and he was swaying and smelt of drink, so he was drunk. I was ecstatic and ushered him in.
`D'you have company? Chick in your bed?' I shook my head. I was alone. The flat was dark except for light in the bedroom.
Could I get him a drink? Yes, please, coffee, please. And we went into the kitchen. As I prepared an espresso for him, he stood in the doorway and watched, one elbow up and his hand touching his face. His armpit had a delicate tuft of almost invisible blond hairs, and his arm boyishly skinny, with no muscle definition. His hair had been made wavy, he had large false pearl earrings, his eyes heavily made up, rouged cheeks, and scarlet lips. His pretty face was so horridly transformed, it made one realize what slags girls are to put all that muck on their faces, and dress the way they do. Not remotely erotic. He was wearing a golden crop top, held up by a halter, his skinny shoulders and arms bare, his taut stomach bare, and underneath a tight black leather miniskirt, and his lovely legs masked by diaphanous black stockings, like a funeral. As with anyone in drag, his appearance left me cold.
I've never ever understood why a boy would ever want to look like a girl. I can appreciate that a boy might enjoy the more intense sensation of a fist up his arse; I can appreciate that a boy might enjoy bondage and punishment, the sensation of being utterly at the mercy of someone else, even if it's make believe; and I can appreciate that a boy might enjoy sucking off anonymous dicks at a glory hole, the sensation of being utterly without inhibitions. I have no interest in such things myself, not at all, but I can appreciate that one might. Yet I'm quite incapable of appreciating why a boy would want to look like or sound like a girl. It's one of the many things I don't understand about many gay boys. I suppose it's character, as in those who prefer rough buggery by hairy men bulging with excessive flesh. And `Proud to be gay', what could be more absurd? Proud not to be gay? Isn't that the stuff homophobia is made of? The kettle calling the pot black. Anyways, back to Frederic in his girly outfit.
As we waited for the water to steam through, Frederic leaned on the jamb with his forearms, and stuck out his little leather-clad arse. Oh, to stick my hand up his skirt, my face. He looked over his shoulder seductively and wiggled his arse: `Am I a hot chick?'
I looked at him and said I preferred him as a boy. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I realized I'd made a slip. My face burned with embarrassment, and hurriedly I opened a cupboard and noisily found a coffee cup and saucer, noisily found a coffee spoon. He was leaning back now, with his hips thrust forward, a hand on his taut belly, like the proverbial whore. One sugar and then pour the coffee into the cup. Flapjack? I was still flushed and my voice quavering, everything seemed to echo in kitchen, and I wanted to rub my face in his smooth belly.
`Yum, yum, yes, please.' Yum, yum indeed. He grinned with pleasure, like a little boy, and clumsily I put a flapjack on top of his cup and handed it to him. Then without looking at him, I told him to come to my bedroom and fled. I slipped quickly out of my dressing gown and under the sheets. I had a raging stiffy that I wanted him to see and not to see. I heard him turn off the kitchen light, and follow me into the room. He sat on the bed, held the flapjack in his mouth, and stirred the coffee. The splay of his legs made my crotch twitch. A boy's delicate legs, fine thighs, the miniskirt barely covering his loins, the gap beckoning a hand or a face to explore the heat inside. Then he put the spoon down again, took the flapjack out of his mouth, and with the other hand raised the cup to his lips and took a sip of coffee, leaving a lipstick stain on the cup. Lips glistening wet, he bit into the flapjack, exposing his white teeth. I asked for a sip, and he handed me the cup. I made sure to drink from where the lipstick stain was, and then I lit a cigarette, and settled back to watch him. He smiled, now with that vulnerable look again, more exposed almost behind all that muck. Watching me all the time, he proceeded to take little bites out of the flapjack, slowly, showing off his pretty teeth, playing seductively with his lip-sticked pouty lips, taking little sips of coffee and gulping them down slowly and noisily, licking his lips seductively, and of course, to my utter delight, ruining the sultry display with giggle-twitches, bringing his hand to his mouth, which made him all the more desirable. Having sensuously chewed the last bite of flapjack and noisily sucked out the last coffee, he put down the cup. Now each crumbed finger was inserted slowly into his mouth, and sucked clean, while he watched me sultrily through hooded eyes. He watched my mouth, and not my eyes. We giggled quietly in our throats.
`Home-made?' What?
`Flapjack excellent. Just the right amount of tackiness. Make it yourself?' I nodded, my cock throbbing. He licked his lips sultrily and asked for a cigarette. I lit one and held it out for him to take. He leaned forward with pouted lips and catching my eye, let them grip the cigarette. I held on and we had a little tug of war, and then I let go. That was damned sexy. He took a deep drag, watching me all the while, giggling quietly, letting smoke pour out of his mouth and nose, like a cloud of diaphanous sperm.
He ran his skirt up his thigh like a whore, his fingertips splayed under the hem, and whispered seductively: `Wanna hot chick in your bed?' I smiled and shook my head, no chick in my bed. Duckling was fine, chick no. And we both giggled. I was still not entirely sober, but all thoughts of refuge in the closet had by now vaporized. He'd come knocking on my door, after all, and not merely because he'd missed the last train that he obviously hadn't missed, for it left already at one. And now his performance on my bed, making himself most alluring, left no doubt in my mind ― this lovely duckling wanted love. I was so hard beneath the sheets it almost hurt, and I could feel a gush almost of pre-cum.
I pinched the stocking that covered his thigh, asked him how he kept them up. He raised the leather skirt and casually splayed his thighs. Now that was super erotic. He was wearing blue schoolboy Speedos that he had pulled up over his hips, with suspender clips at either end, one attaching them to the leg holes of his Speedos, the other to the stockings. We both giggled, and then really giggled, his eyes sparkling. He said he'd tried wearing underpants, but they'd slip down, whereas the Speedos were tied round the waist. His phallus was lying to one side, swollen but not hard, and there was a patch of wet at the tip, obviously not piss. I said it looked as if the sexy chick was not only hot but also on heat. I wiggled my eyebrows and he simpered, and let himself fall backwards onto me. We both laughed out loud, and his hair tickled my chest. I knew he could feel my stiffy under the sheets. Then we fell quiet, and he lay with his back pressed against my stiffy, looking back up at me, both of us smirking. Then we both watched as his phallus hardened and stretched between his narrow thighs, creasing his Speedos, moving up his groin as if animated.
`Can I sleep here?' He looked up at me with chaste puppy-dog eyes, or rather, the head slightly tilted; eyes innocent, or as innocent as he could look in drag, wearing make up and his cock obscenely large and leaking in his Speedos. I smirked: thought he'd never ask, the army shirt beckoned. He smiled sweetly and twitched his eyebrows. On my tongue lay more amorous, lecherous responses.
Without losing eye contact, he pulled up a leg and removed a shoe, letting it drop on the floor, and then the other leg and shoe, unclasped the skirt at the side and wriggled out of it. He made no attempt to conceal his leaking stiffy, but turned to lie crosswise on the bed, and pulled up his knees for me to remove the clasps. Breathless I slowly removed the clasps from his Speedos one by one, unnecessarily holding his bare thigh with my free hand, overwhelmed almost by the desire to cover his thighs with kisses, to press my face into the hollow of his anus. He then lay back on the bed, his crotch bulging obscenely, and stretched his legs out, and I slid the stockings off his legs and feet with both hands running all the way down. He spread his legs, boy from the waist down now, and girl from the waist up. All I had to do was bend over and press my face against his wet crotch. He pulled off his earrings, and then twisted round, exposing his nylon-clad buttocks and bare back, and asked me to unfasten the halter top and bra. It fell off, with the rags that had filled the bra, and he picked it all up and gave it to me, warm in my hands, and I threw them on the floor. He turned round onto his back again and lay there watching me with a smile, deliberately spreading his thighs. I gulped nervously. Now he was all boy except for the ghastly make up, and his phallus engorged and leaking in his Speedos.
`Got a hanky?' By my pillow. I gave it to him. He smiled. `You were having a wank, weren't you? Tee-hee. This is for cleaning up.' I didn't blush. Schoolboys know what former schoolboys do. He unfolded it. `It's dry.' He held out the hanky. Well, I was interrupted. And we both giggled.
`Spit.' I spat into the hanky. `Again', and I spat again. And he began to remove the make up with the damp hanky. He grinned: `Maybe sperm would be better.' We giggled almost inaudibly. I took the hanky from him.
`You gonna give me some sperm?' Did he want me to? He looked at me and laughed, both of us still too shy to take such a bold step. I got him to spit coffee-stained spit into it instead, and bit by bit, spit by spit, I removed all the make up. God, it was so erotic. The wet up the side of his Speedos now revealed a rosy glans. Finally, I had him spit in my hand, `a nice big glob', and I rubbed it round, and then wiped it off, till he was quite unsoiled by any girlishness. I threw the dirty hanky onto the floor and we gazed into one another's eyes. If only I had got him to wank me, got him to make me spray onto his face, and cleaned him off with warm sperm.
He read my filthy mind and grinned: `You could've come on my face instead, couldn't you, ducks?' That I could've done, duckling, that I could. Again he laughed out loud, and we giggled, slinking closer to the forbidden realm.
`It feels really strange lying in bed in Speedos.' He jumped up, pulling at the string in his Speedos, and ran over to his hold-all and pulled out a pair of white briefs. With his back to me, he changed. Gorgeous, round, creamy white boy buttocks, small and tight. His hand inside, to adjust the bulge, and then slap went the waistband, and he plonked himself on the bed again, grinning. Sat up, brushed his hair aside in his usual manner, and smiled sweetly, oh, so sweetly: `Better now? Tee-hee.' I nodded, tears gathering. This was just too sweet, too damned perfect. I wanted to cry.
`All boy? All duckling?' he asked solicitously. I nodded, tears welling up. I removed my glasses. He kneeled forward. His skinny arm went round my neck and my arm went round his waist as we for the first time kissed, spilling over with tenderness and affection. Tears soon gushed and I wept.
`There, there, ducks', he whispered, kissing away my tears, and stroking my hair, an arm still round my neck. My duckling seemed unsurprised, as if he'd expected it. He hugged me, rubbing his face in my wet cheeks. Retrieved the dirty hanky and made me blow my nose. Twice. Threw the hanky back on the floor. He stuck a hand into his underpants on the side and pushed out the soft white material and cleaned my glasses. Then he put my glasses back on.
`All right, ducks?' I nodded, adjusted my glasses, and he pulled back the sheets, exposing my phallus in my underpants. He glanced at me with a grin and then bent down and nuzzled the bulge. Then he straddled my hips, his hard crotch pressed against my belly, his face before me, lemon locks tickling my face. He stroked back my hair, kissed my forehead, and then we snogged lazily, our hands at last caressing each other's bodies. I removed my glasses again but he said keep them on, keep them on, please.
By some unspoken agreement, we only snogged and cuddled and writhed, rubbing our hands over each other's bulges, caressing each other's buttocks, squirming and sighing at each other's caresses. Quietly, with sighs and purrs, we made love, almost innocently, as if our white schoolboy underpants were chastity belts, the garment that still bound us in innocent schoolboyhood. Delirious, I rubbed cotton-clad genitals, the other hand caressing his cotton-clad buttocks, my fingers rubbing his anus like a dog, and then I he gasped and squealed into my mouth as he ejaculated into his underpants. This in turn made me ejaculate fiercely in my own underpants, leaving me panting, my mouth still pressed against his mouth. And then we just lay there face to face, smiling tenderly, tracing each other's face, warm body pressed against warm body.
`Sweet on me, ducks? Am I your sweet boy?' He whispered, adjusting my glasses. Besotted, duckling. Mad, mad, mad about the boy. And he kissed my nose. It was morning twilight, and we needed to sleep. He pulled aside the sheets and we both looked down at our crotches, now darkened by sperm. He prodded my wet and we both laughed. Then he removed my glasses, put them on the bedside table, pressed warm lips against my eyelids, and pulled up the sheets again. He turned and pressed his little arse against my crotch, pulled my arms about him, and pressed my hand to his mouth. Soon he fell asleep. I felt his nimble body warm and soft in my arms, the supple little buttocks against my wet crotch, my nose in his silken hair, the smell of warm boy in my nostrils. I didn't wonder whether it was a dream, I knew it wasn't, but I was full of wonderment.
I woke just past ten-thirty. He had turned and as before lay with his forehead on my collarbone, his hand stroking the bulge in my underpants. My hand was inside his warm thighs. I felt his eyelashes and his hair brush my chest. He looked up at me and smiled, half his face behind a veil of lemon locks. His delicate hand slid into the fly of my underpants, and fondled my phallus and my balls. So silky and warm his hand! I sighed with pleasure and fondled the bulge in his underpants, ran my fingers down to his oh, so smooth perinaeum. Turned my head down and we snogged. He tried to pull my phallus out but without success. Broke away from our kiss and bent his head while with both hands he manoeuvred my phallus out through the fly, his face absorbed in the task. Out slipped my phallus, so big in his face, and he glanced at me with the grin of success. `Tee-hee.' Bent his head and rubbed my phallus all over his face. `Wait, wait', and he reached over and got my glasses, and put them on me. Looked at me, adjusted them, and kissed me on the mouth.
`That's better.' Then he turned and again serious as he gently extricated my balls, and his silken caresses. He climbed over me to part my thighs and kneel between them. Grasped my phallus, disproportionately large in his delicate hand, and slid the foreskin back and forth, glancing again and again at me like the cat that snaffled the canary. I adjusted my glasses and lay back, resting on my elbows, breathless almost with wonderment at this gorgeous boy glorying in my sex. Pre-cum trickled over his thumb and he bent down and licked it off, licked my glans clean. Grinned at me again as he licked his lips clean and brushed his hair aside. Then he lay down on his stomach, his feet sticking out over the edge of the bed, and pulled my legs up so my thighs rested on his shoulders. Then again like the self-satisfied cat, he pressed his sweet warm soft face section by section into my crotch, purring all the while, inhaling deeply through the nose and then sighing loudly through the mouth. His lemon hair tickled my groin, my balls and my thighs all the while. The sight and sensation of him made me think I might come without further stimulus. I reached out with one hand and stroked his hair aside to watch his pretty face. He ran his pink little tongue up and down the underside of my phallus, and then commenced dreamily to suckle. He was not expert, which made it all the more sweet, all the more erotic, his mouth warm and wet. I moaned as he suckled and almost at once I ejaculated. I cried out as if in agony, sat up with a jerk, and cradled his silken head in my hands as I spurted and spurted into his warm mouth, our eyes locked. Then it was my turn to whine, as ecstasy changed into hypersensitivity. He pulled away with his mouth closed and cheeks bulging slightly, gazing at me with merry eyes, a gelatinous blob of white on the side of his mouth.
He leapt up and looked around, his underpants wet and swollen in front, hugging his little bottom, and then he opened the wardrobe and stood in front of the full-length mirror in the door. He opened and closed his mouth, playing with the gelatinous mass, sticking out his tongue, turning to grin at me, a big spermy grin and giggles in the deep of his throat. Then he turned again to the mirror and swallowed in little gulps, each time opening his mouth to see the remaining goo, licking his lips. With the final gulp, he opened his mouth wide, and again turned with a huge grin on his face. As he approached, I could see a film of goo in his mouth, strings of translucent goo over his pink tongue and white teeth, his wet crotch tented. He lay down between my thighs again, and grasped my swollen phallus lying there, pressed out another gob, sucked it away, squeezed again, looking at me with sparkly eyes and a spermy grin. God, I want to embrace him, hug him, kiss him, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, kiss that grinning face. How fine his complexion, the light freckles, the pale eyelashes, the outline of his soft cheek and his little ear sticking out, the delicate warm hand draped round my large phallus. He gave my glans a tremendous and noisy suck and then with some manoeuvring tucked my genitals back into my underpants. Patted the bulge and pulled himself over me, seeking my lips, his breath warm and spermy. We had a long spermy snog and then with a huge sigh, he lay back on my shoulder, stroking my hair, kissing me with his tacky lips. I rubbed the cotton bulge between his warm legs, his silken thighs.
`Hell's bells and buckets of blood!' his voice was bright and boyish, `Ha! Fellated you and gulped down your spermata.' Spermata? I laughed. What the hell was spermata? He laughed. Plural for sperma. Latin. Fellate was also Latin, from fellare. Ah, yes, my duckling was a Latin scholar. I ruffled his pretty hair. Spermata sounded like stigmata.
He nuzzled my face. `Did you like my fellation?' What kind of a bloody question was that? I came almost at once, didn't I? Spermata galore... galorius galorium. Frederic squealed with delight and covered my mouth with his slippery mouth, and we snogged, giggling. Then we fell back again quietly, grinning like idiots. I slipped my hand inside his underpants and lazily fondled his sticky genitals. He smiled shyly.
`Buccam semen, tee-hee. Sperma abundantiam, abundantiam! I've never done that before... never.' And he just lay there quietly blinking his eyes. Then he grinned: `Except in my fantasies...tee-hee. I sucked you off many times in my fantasies... Hells' bells, I've dreamt of this so many times.' And he giggled deep in his throat, and I giggled, and he ruffled my hair, and we giggled together. My fingers caressing his little buttocks, rubbing the cleavage. He wriggled and continued chatting.
`I'd buy double cream, you know? The really thick stuff? And I'd keep it in my mouth, let it warm up, and pretend it was your sperm, and just stand for ages in front of the bathroom mirror, playing with it, smearing it on my lips, letting it drip onto my chin, drip onto my chest, onto my willy, wanking like crazy, and then I'd add my own sperm, and make a complete pig of myself.' We both giggled and giggled and giggled. And more quietly, he added: `And then I'd swallow it all, gulp by gulp, imagining it was yours. Imagining I'd sucked your beautiful willy... I'd worked out a complete and elaborate fantasy...' And he sighed with exaggerated satisfaction. `Sometimes I'd throw my legs back over head, you know? Like a yogi? And then I'd cum into my mouth and onto my face... imagining it was youuuuuu!' He rolled onto me and rubbed his warm face in my face, and still the scent of sperm, and again he sighed with exaggerated satisfaction. My hand roamed those smooth, oh so smooth warm arse cheeks of his. I wanted to suck his arse but I also wanted to revel in the sound of his sweet voice and his lovely giggles.
He traced my lips with a light finger, `And you, ducks?' He almost whispered: `Your fantasies? Naughty fantasies?' I sucked his fingertip. Mmmm. I was fantasizing about him when he buzzed yesterday.
`About me?' He wriggled his bottom. `About me? You fantasized about me?' Mmmm, already in school.
`You fantasized about me in school?' Mmmm.
Frederic whispered into my ear. `What was your fantasy?' Evreee-ting, evreeee-ting. I squeezed his buttock.
`Nothing in particular?' Hmm... and I blushed.
`Come on! I've told you about my own filthy fantasies!' Well, I fantasized about his bum, and now I squeezed it again.
`So you were looking at my bum! You were, you filthy bugger!' No, I very seldom looked at his bum actually. I didn't dare look at him at all, 'cause whenever I did, I'd get mesmerized, and I'd get heartache. Not a hard-on but heartache. He giggled.
`I know what you mean. I'd get mesmerized by your mouth, and the crotch in your trousers.' My mouth? `And your glasses! Your specs! Your sexy spectacles!' My spectacles?
`I love boys in specs, especially tortoise-shell. So damn sexy! That's why I want you to wear them. A naked boy in specs, ah, so sexy. Starkers and specs, aaah! And your mouth. I wanted to kiss your mouth like crazy. The first time I saw you, I was spellbound... spellllll-bound!' And he kissed me, warm little kisses all over my glasses and my mouth: `Lovely, lovely, lovely specs; lovely, lovely, lovely lips.' And we giggled and giggled, his nimble body squirming in my arms. And again we lay quiet, my hand lightly caressing his bottom, his hand on my crotch.
`Love my bottom, ducks?' Mmmm. I ran my hand round his buttocks, oh ecstasy, my hand on his bare buttocks. So springy, so smooth and warm and soft the skin. He sighed contentedly.
`What did you fantasize about my bottom? Wanna bugger me the ole' naval tradition way?' I had to think. No. I didn't know about buggery. No, no fantasies about buggery. It was just his bottom, his bum, caressing his bum, and... no, I couldn't say, it was too embarrassing.
`Too embarrassing? Too embarrassing? That sounds right saucy.' And he jumped up and tugged at the pillow. I pulled my hand out of his underpants and caressed his inner thigh. Oh, so silken.
`Get off! I want the pillow!' I raised my head, and he slid the pillow away. Put it in the middle of the bed and lay down on it, adjusted himself so the pillow lay under his hips, and his bottom raised. Spread his legs and looked at me.
In a husky voice he said: `All yours, ducks. Show me what's too embarrassing. Show me.' I sat up. There, the two little buns encased in white schoolboy underpants, the sexiest sight on the planet. Not deliberately `sexy' as such, like a low waistband or a string for a waistband or a string up between the buttocks. No. Plain innocent underpants, covering everything, neither tight nor loose, reaching to the navel, revealing yet not revealing, that is the most alluring sight.
Tentatively, I reached out and traced his buns with my fingertips. Traced the hollow between them, marvelled at the way they curved out, my phallus grown hard as steel. I sat beside him in wonder, and then bent down and gently kissed one buttock, then the other, and again and again. Then lightly parted them, oh, what a sight! The fabric stretching between them. Let go and they bounced back together, the fabric caught between them. Again and again, wondrous sight. Then light kisses down along the hollow, down to his anus, and the scent of his arse! I pressed my face into the hollow, rubbed my face in his arse, like a dog rubbing ants off his face, and with the same urgency. Reflexively, I inhaled the rich scent of boy and boy's arse, and purred in the bottom of my throat. I pulled aside one leghole, exposing his anus. My duckling's anus! Puckered and pink, hairless and that sweet-sour smell, not of faeces but of arsehole. I pulled the leghole right over to one side, spread his cheeks farther, and watched fascinated as the pucker stretched and the pink flesh became visible. And I kissed the soft flesh, the mucous membrane of his anus, and the silken flesh around, and then I licked and then I sucked, finally pressing my mouth passionately against his anus, sucking and licking and probing. Frederic began to whimper quietly, writhing from side to side, his hand ruffling my hair, pushing his arse back against my face. Slurp, suck, sigh, slurp, suck, sigh, dribble, sigh, suck. Let go of the leghole and rubbed my face all over his warm cotton-clad buttocks, his bare silken thighs, and then I flipped him over onto his back and pushed his knees back so they met his shoulders, pulled them out wide, pulled a leghole aside again to expose his anus, and back down slurp and suck, he rolling his head from side to side, mouth ajar and sighing, punctuated every now and then by a squeal. And then I let go again and sat up, and wriggled my fingers into the fly of his underpants. All wet inside! When did he come?
His face all red, he giggled. `When I tasted you in my mouth. I didn't feel you ejaculate, but then I tasted it. Your sperm in my mouth. So much, ha! You erupted and then I erupted like crazy... action-reaction.' And he giggled again. I kissed him affectionately on the lips. Sweetheart.
`You smell of my arse. Tee-hee.' And he gave me little pecks with his pouty lips, sniffing about my mouth.
`Lovely smell of boy bum... my boy bum.' My lovely, darling duckling. And then I moved down, pulled his creamy thighs over my shoulders, his heels on my back, and my face over his crotch. Carefully, I opened the fly of his underpants and pulled out his genitals. First his balls and then his phallus. Carefully, I sought out the wet parts and sucked them dry, sucked his pubes clean, and then sucked clean the soft white material of his underpants. And now I rubbed my face with his phallus. It was longer and thicker than his delicate anatomy would suggest, and was beautiful. The hairless balls were like plovers' eggs in a silken sac, and his glans a pale pink, half-covered by a silky fine foreskin, slippery with pre-cum. There was one little freckle on his foreskin and two larger ones on the shaft.
Duckling, duckling, dearest darling duckling, what a perfect, what a pretty penis you have. He answered without hesitation: `All the better to give you suck, all the better to give you suck.' And he stroked back my hair. Gently I closed my mouth over his leaking glans and suckled.
Duckling, duckling, dearest darling duckling, what smooth balls you have, smooth and sweet. `All the better for you to suck them into your hot mouth.' And languorously I mouthed his balls, twiddling them with my tongue, luxuriating in the scent of his warm lap.
Duckling, duckling, dearest darling duckling, what silken thighs you have, slender and creamy. `All the better for you to kiss them and lick them and wrap them round your neck.' And I did exactly what he said, burying my nose in the smooth groove where his thighs met his trunk.
He was purring loudly now, stroking my head wildly, so I raised my head and slid my open mouth down his phallus as far as I could go. I knew nothing of deep-throating and such things, but slid my mouth up and down as far as was comfortable. He moaned and thrust forth his hips. I took his hands and made him grasp my head and then let him guide my mouth up and down his phallus. Like me, he had no staying power for such novel sensations, and quickly he gave a high squeak and thrust hard into my mouth as he spurted. Like he, I felt nothing, but tasted the fresh sperm on my tongue. I felt a sort of lazy orgasm, with sperm spurting very gently out of my urethra, almost hesitantly, but very sweet the sensation. I played gently with his emission in my mouth, and then hesitantly swallowed it, savouring it like a wine taster.
(Of course, sperm doesn't taste sweet, it isn't a delicious honey of love, in fact, there is nothing pleasant about the taste at all. It smells but it is not fragrant. It is the mind that makes it a fragrant honey of love, it is sweet by association. Because it's the beloved's sperm, because the beloved's face is sweet, his sperm tastes sweet and is fragrant. The beloved's arsehole is fragrant and sweet, and we lap at it in ecstasy. Even the beloved's armpits and feet are perceived as fragrant. But were the face above the arse another's, were it someone we loathed, then his sperm, his arsehole, everything would be loathsome too.)
Thus, with mind perverted by desire, I lay there in an erotic torpor, holding his warm phallus in my mouth, dribbling onto his silken scrotum, breathing deeply through my nose, inhaling the aroma of his lap, his hip pressing against the back of my head. He stroked my hair as I nuzzled my face into the warm fabric of his underpants. I wanted to sleep with my face in between his thighs.
`Kiss me, ducks. Kiss me, please.' And I moved up again and we snogged, slippery mouths. Snogged and snogged and snogged, breathing heavily through our noses, our hands cradling each other's head. He tucked his genitals back into his underpants and then rolled us over so he lay on top of me, a knee between my thighs, my hand inside his underpants, gently caressing his bum. And we lay there quietly. No sound in the house, as quiet as the grave. Outside, no cars. No birds, no voices. No sound in the house, no movement, as if all had turned to stone. Two boys in love. His head on my shoulder, and, ah, his breath, so soft upon my breast. I could distinguish his in-breath before he spoke.
`I want to come on your glasses... while you're wearing them, of course... one of my fantasies. Lick my sperm off your glasses while you're wearing them. Tee-hee. Can I?' Of course, but he'd have to clean them afterwards. And we both giggled and lay quiet warm and heaven.
`I never imagined you'd suck my arse like that. Tee-hee.' Did he think it was disgusting?
`Disgusting? It's super sexy. Why would it be disgusting?' Well.
`But I'm squeaky clean down there. I wash my arsehole. If ever it was dirty, I'd tell you, of course.' Yes, please. Shit was not exactly a turn-on. Not even a trace. Sweaty bum is lovely, but no brown streak, thank you very much.
`Deal. If you wanna suck my bum and I haven't washed it after a shit, I'll tell you. Honest Injun.' And he laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. I hugged him in ecstasy.
`Anyways, when I wank, you know, I always rub my arsehole, twiddle a fingertip.' Me too. Sometimes I'd push my finger inside, in and out. So did he... sometimes two. And we giggled. And then again dreamy quiet. Birds twittered outside and a car passed somewhere. And the sound of his breath, his heartbeat on my arm. His hair tickling.
`Propinquity.' He spoke dreamily.
`Our propinquity makes me tingle.' Propinquity?
`It means nearness, closeness. You and I are now propinquant, our bodies are close, our minds are close, our hearts are close, our intentions are close, even our histories are propinquant... I am positively delirious with propinquity.' And we laughed, and I hugged him, rubbing my face in his hair. And again we lay watching each other, watching each other's eyes blink. He smiled.
`Remember when I talked to you outside the refectory?' Mmm. Softly we spoke.
`Remember what I said?' I would never forget. He moved his head down to rest it on my shoulder. His eyelashes tickled my skin, his breath warm.
`What did I say?' He said he'd rubbed himself with a pillow between his legs, imagining that it was me pleasing him, and that I'd made him ejaculate.
`What did you say?' Nowt, I said nowt. I caressed the silken head on my chest. He stroked my stomach.
`Why? Why didn't you say anything?' I wasn't sure what he'd meant.
`Why not? It was very clear... short of "I love you".' Yeees, it was clear enough, but the motive wasn't clear, was it? Could've been a practical joke, a setup. All the boys poised to pounce and spread the word. `He's a pansy! A fucking nancy boy! Not normal!'
Frederic raised his head and looked at me, incredulous, tilted his pretty head. Shook his head quietly. `I never thought of that.' He laid his head down again, idly licked my nipple. I stroked his feathery hair.
`I never imagined it could be misunderstood.' Well, he'd always been cracking jokes about it, hadn't he? I love you, I need you. It was always a joke. And again he raised his head and looked at me. Laid his head down again.
`For 'tis the sport to have the engineer hoist with his own petard.' What?
`Hamlet.' Hm. Frederic sighed. Kissed my nipple. Rested his face on my breast.
`For 'tis the sport to have the engineer
`Hoist with his own petard: and 't shall go hard
`But I will delve one yard below their mines,
`And blow them at the moon.'
I squeezed his buttock. Clever, clever duckling. I felt his breath upon my breast as he spoke.
`Why didn't you pretend to get offended?' Because it could be true. I could hardly even pretend to get offended because a pretty boy declared his love for me, could I? Certainly not if he'd mustered so much courage to stand forth and declare it so sweetly to me. It would be deeply insulting. And I had to respect Frederic's trust in me, his having dared to declare his love precisely because he trusted I wouldn't get offended. But I was simply unprepared to believe there wasn't a catch somewhere. The environment didn't exactly encourage open love between boys did it? You'd be ostracized at once, wouldn't you. Not normal. And we fell silent again. Frederic sucked my nipple, I slipped a hand inside his underpants and fondled his buttock.
`I'd practised it for ages, absolute ages... Again and again I was going to tell you, but I always funked it. And then suddenly term's end was looming, so I'd wait in the cloisters below the refectory, to see if I could catch you alone. Never, bloody never. And then that beautiful evening, there you were all by yourself, as if you'd been waiting for me. I was delirious.' I told him I was delighted myself, not delirious because the uncertainty factor was too big.
`You just stood there, looking at me blankly, and I almost died. What a blunder! I tore back to my house in tears and hid in the lavatory. I wept for ages. Wept in my bed.' So sorry, duckling, so sorry. I too was bewildered. Had you meant it, hadn't you meant it? It wasn't exactly something one was prepared for, was it? And then I thought it must have been a joke because I never saw or heard of him again.
`I never imagined it could be misunderstood...' He fell silent. `How stupid of me... I didn't dare meet you again. Oh God! How stupid of me!' I ruffled his hair with my free hand. All good now. I was overjoyed when I saw him on the train.
`Yes, that was obvious. I was all tingly when I went down to see you. Had an erection.' Really? And we both giggled. `Put both my hands in my blazer pockets and pulled down the front, to hide it. Oh, I wanted to hug you and kiss you...' And we fell silent.
Frederic raised his head and looked at me again. `What if... what if you'd known it was true, had known it wasn't a practical joke... how would you've responded then?' Probably the same. His face twitched ever so slightly, his eyes wide in question.
`The same?' Well, it was a declaration of love from one boy to another, wasn't it? Frederic nodded. Well, what was I to say? `Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove'? A boy cannot say that to another boy, can he?
`But who would've known?' I would've known and Frederic would've known. And if we made love, we'd ever have to look over our shoulders to see if anyone had found us out.
He hugged me, his head pressed into my neck. `But here we are, ducks, here we are.' Yes, and how careful we now have to be. And if we want to make love again, be together again, how careful we shall have to be. Never again can we enjoy the safety of the blameless life. There will be our parents to deceive, our friends to deceive, our colleagues to deceive. `Who's that boy Frederic? Rather young, isn't he?' `Oh, he's just a friend from school.' He's just a friend from school, he sleeps on the sofa, doesn't he. We'll have to have a sleeping bag handy, make sure it looks slept in, and air out the bedroom, so it doesn't smell of love. Pretend we don't touch each other, shake hands when we meet and part in public, sit apart on the train, a life of extreme caution, never-ending subterfuge, for we are worse than the worst criminals. A boy may kill or steal or rape or tell lies or get drunk, no blot on his reputation. He's still one of the boys, he may even rise in others' estimation. He's still allowed into respectable people's drawing rooms, the old school tie will still recognize him. But, and here's the biggest but of all, if a boy loves another boy, he's out. Stigmatized, not fit for human society. `Not normal.' All the other things can be accommodated into normality, joining the army to go abroad and kill other people for the sake of national interests, evading taxes, underpaying one's employees, making money out of people's sickness and fear of sickness, you name it, all the evil perpetrated by Wall Street and the City and the Government and the secret services and parliament, can be accommodated under `the normal', but if a boy loves another boy, that is `not normal', it is an abomination. I stroked Frederic's silken head and kissed his hair. And we lay there quietly. Two boys in love. An abomination. His face in my neck, and, ah, his breath, so soft upon my skin.
He spoke quietly into my neck: `Hell's bells and buckets of blood.' Hugged me tight, tight, tight, whining as he did so. My glasses fell off. He let go and sighed into my ear. `I love you.' I said nowt, tears gathering.
`Come on, ducks, say it.' I gulped and gasped tearfully.
He whispered: `Say it, ducks, dare to say it, dare.' I grasped his head in my hands and pressed it against my face. I love you, duckling, oh, God, how I love you. The floodgates were opened and I wept. Years of frustrated love, years of repression and worry and fear, flooded forth and I wept as if released of all the demons. Like an unhappy child, my weeping did not gradually fade but gradually increased, more and more, till I was whining and shaking, and pressing his body to mine as if in the throe of death.
Frederic told me he had decided to call upon me at three-thirty in the morning because the very next Friday, he was going to Spain with his parents. They had a sprawling old farm house on the coast in Majorca, and were spending a month there. He'd left a fancy-dress party, where he'd danced with pretty girls, they'd snogged a bit, the girls had groped him and said he was so cute, and all he could think of was my absence, my absent kisses, my absent caresses, and he decided to call upon me drunk, in drag, and in kind of despair, not knowing what to expect, but hoping. It'd come out better than he'd hoped for, and when we parted the following afternoon, he was in tears. He was newly sixteen, still full of innocent hope, while I was a cynical nineteen, always expecting the worst.
During his month's sojourn, I worked like crazy, taking extra shifts practically every day, and working the whole of every week-end. The excuse was `feathering my future academic nest', the reason was that I wanted to be distracted, not to brood over the absence of my duckling. So tired I'd be when I returned home, I'd have just one large whisky and then practically pass out, literally putting to sleep my longing and new-found loneliness. Frederic wrote me many letters, always ending with: `I miss you, ducks, miss you, miss you, miss you, miss you.' His first letters were long, rambling affairs, but then they became more compact, and eventually just postcards stuffed into an envelope, with just the legend of longing. Why? Because his mother'd asked who he was writing those long letters to. `Just a friend.' A girlfriend? And he'd blushed `like crazy', and mumbled that it was a friend from school. And she'd commented again on how long his letters were. So he ended up scribbling his short missives right there in the post office. He asked me to send him only one letter a fortnight, two for the whole month, to avert suspicion. So there he was, a mere lad already forced into subterfuge and looking over his shoulder to see whether his mother had discovered that he was in love. If it had been a girl, of course, it would have been `normal', and he could've sat at the dining table openly scribbling mile-long letters with everyone cheering him along.
On a Sunday evening, it was Frederic's darling voice, calling from the luggage pick-up at the airport, inviting himself for dinner on the subsequent Tuesday. a mere two days later. He didn't want to wait till the week-end because it was just too long to wait, he said, and he was due back in school the following week. I was electric with joy, and my colleagues caught on. They told me I had a smile permanently on my face, that I was positively glowing, and of course, they suggested there was a girl somewhere. Truthfully, I could deny it, but I couldn't tell them there was a duckling. With all my night- and week-end shifts, it was dead easy for me to take the Wednesday off.
And then, there he was, on a warm late-summer's eve. `Hola, ducks.' I could not speak, just a sort of squeak deep in the throat, and I let him in, tears gushing. I slammed the door and trembling beheld him: tiny duckling-yellow shorts with a broad blue canvas belt with egg-yolk yellow stripes, bright yellow Converse trainers, and an oversize pale yellow shirt with white stripes, buttons undone to bare his chest. The shirt was so long it covered his shorts so all one could see underneath were his bare thighs, as if he was naked underneath. His thin boy's arms emerged from wide short sleeves, and his skin was a caramel tan. His delicate toes peeked out brown from heavy brown leather sandals. His shoulder-length hair was bleached almost white, and contrasted with his brown skin, which contrasted with his blue eyes and white teeth and pink lips, and he looked like innocence made flesh and a sex bomb.
`Like my duckling outfit?' I just blubbered and embraced him, my arms under his arms, I raised him off his feet, and swung him round and round and round. Tearfully, we snogged `like crazy'. My hands explored his tight little buttocks and those narrow loins and he had a very stiff stiffy. Finally our mouths disengaged and we stood there, looking at each other with shining eyes. I stammered, f-f-fetching, awf-f-fully f-fetching. And he giggled with delight, snapped his fingers above his head: `Olé!' And he danced about me, wriggling his lovely round bum, swaying his narrow hips, and thrusting with his swollen crotch.
`I took a cab 'cause I have such a stiffy! Had to cover it with my bag! Look!' And we giggled and again embraced and snogged, and I ran my hand up and down between his bare thighs. My hands slipped inside the baggy legs of his shorts and into his underpants, and wondrously I cupped his bare buttocks. He giggled in my arms and rubbed my crotch.
`Love my bum, ducks? Love my fourteen-year-old schoolboy bum? F-f-fetching, is it? Missed it?' Mmmm. I fingered his pucker, nuzzled his silken hair. V-v-vvery pretty, duckling yellow shorts. And he giggled.
`They're tailor made, ducks. Boys can have blue and grey and black and white but red and yellow and pink and orange are only for girls. So my mum had these yellow shorts made for me, and the shirt! My design! Well, mainly my design. Look how wide the legs are! Look how high they're cut on the sides, to show off my sexy thighs! That was actually Mum's idea. She said boys have the loveliest legs in the world, the envy of every girl.' His mum said that? And we both giggled. I slipped my hand back inside the legs of his shorts and groped him in inside his underpants. Were his underpants also yellow?
`No, I know you love me in my whites, so they're white. Perhaps a yellow stain or two, tee-hee, but they're white as white, just for you!' As he spoke, he stretched up on his tiptoes again and pressed his lips to mine, his breath in my mouth, and we snogged and snogged and hugged and hugged and whined and whined, he waving his legs about. I brushed back his hair and looked at his pretty face.
Now, duckling, what was the programme? He laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. He did have a programme. His wank fantasy for the last month, getting more and more elaborate. So what was it? Again he giggled shyly, and blushed up at me.
`Tee-hee. Not here, the bedroom.' And I took him in a fireman's lift into the bedroom, my hand rubbing his downy thighs and his bum. I sat down on the bed and made him sit in my lap, my arm about his waist, my hard-on pressing against his bum. He wriggled and giggled.
`There's something there, some creature, trying to penetrate my arse.' Shut up and tell me your fantasy. Again he blushed and then pressed his face into my neck so I couldn't see.
`Tee-hee. First you undress me. You stay fully clothed and I am naked. Then... aaah!' He was embarrassed and pressed his face into my breast. `Then you suck my fanny, I mean my arsehole... ahaha... and I come while you're doing that, and then you ejaculate on my brown face. Exactly how it's all done, I don't know. But those are my fantasies.' And then? Never got any further than being ejaculated on, ahaaah hah.
I sat him down on the bed and knelt before him and removed his sandals, exposing delicate brown feet which I covered with kisses, and he giggled and giggled. Then I slowly removed his shirt, exposing his hairless breast and boyish stomach. This was before the ghastly six-pack fad, so his stomach was just smooth and flat, bulging only because he was sitting down, with his ribcage like an arch above it – `natural' if you will. Gently I laid his head back onto the pillow, we snogged, and then I kissed and licked and caressed his neck and armpits and breast, and his soft brown stomach. He was now purring and gasping and ruffling my hair with twitching hands. I slipped down to his knees and licked and sucked the back of them, and then up his slender thighs, and his inner thighs, warm and silky, and he drew his legs up and spread them, and I buried my face in the baggy legs of his shorts, inhaling the warm smell of aroused boy. Then up his crotch onto the bulge, and I unbuckled his canvas belt, and then unbuttoned his shorts and exposed the bulge in his white underpants, the patch of transparency caused by pre-cum. Tugged at his little shorts, he raised his bottom, and I slid his shorts down his slender brown thighs, and off. Pressed the inside of his shorts to my face and sniffed like a dog, the scent and heat of my lovely duckling. I threw his shorts onto the floor and sat back on my heels and gloated at the tanned boy on my bed. There he lay, brown boy gazing at me with dreamy smile and half-hooded eyes, his arms and legs wide apart, his body surrendered to me. All caramel with a patch of white about his loins. Almost religiously, I pressed my face and lips to his warm soft underpants, mouthing his genitals through the fabric, sucking the stain of pre-cum, and then rolled him over to expose his curvy bum. Well, that's what he wanted wasn't it?
He rose on his elbows and pulled the pillow away from behind his head, raised his hips and slipped it underneath, his bum now raised into the air. I rubbed my face about the tight cheeks and then rested my mouth in the hollow of his anus, inhaling the fragrance of warm boy's bottom, my hands caressing his brown thighs.
`Go on, ducks, go on! Get on with it! My fanny's pulsing.' His fanny?
`Yes, ducks, my boy fanny.' And I peeled down his white underpants, leaving them bunched just below his buttocks. My heartbeat became almost imperceptible as I gazed in wonder at his white bottom, like two blobs of cream in a caramel pudding. Gently I spread his buttocks to reveal the pink rosebud, kissing lightly the springy flesh, and then I did as he had fantasized, I stretched the pucker and deliriously sucked and licked and probed it with my mouth and tongue, slurp, slurp, suck, lick, and he spread his legs farther, raised his creamy arse mewled and mewled, and with his hands on the back of my head, pressed my face into the warm smooth valley, my glasses awry. And we mewled and mewled in a passion of analingus, My face and his arse were slick with saliva, my glasses stained. Delirious I emerged and covered his buns with kisses, and rubbed my face up and down the cleavage, pushing my glasses back into place. Slowly I slid his underpants off his thighs, pressed them warm to my face, kissed them and let them reached up and pressed them against his face. He moaned. I rested my nose on his arse and sniffed loudly and then sighed. God, I was a arse fiend. Was this what he wanted?
`I'm about to come. I need a little help.' I grasped his hips and pulled him up onto his knees, and then grasped his phallus from underneath as I resumed my rimming marathon. He was dripping, and I rubbed it round and round over his glans and then began to wank him. And he began to oh, oh, oh. And then he wanted to turn, and I manoeuvred his body round so he lay on his back with the pillow still under his hips, and he threw his legs back over himself.
`I want to come on my face.' So I pulled his legs back till his phallus was above his face, disproportionately big. He pulled my head down so again I rimmed him and with one hand masturbated him, rather awkwardly but it worked. And then I sucked his arsehole looking down between his thighs at his pretty face, focused and with mouth wide open, all white teeth, shiny locks in disarray about his face. And then he moaned out loud and his legs twitched, and he spurted and groaned and spurted and groaned and spurted. One shot hit his mouth, the others hit his neck and breast, it was difficult to aim. I continued to wank and rim him and he whimpered for me to stop. I pulled away and he lowered his legs and stretched himself, his grin splotched with sperm, his brown breast splotched with white sperm as if with paint. I sucked his phallus clean and he stroked my head all the while. I was about to lap up the sperm on his breast when he jumped up and opened the wardrobe as before. He stood before the mirror admiring his cum-streaked face and breast, grinning at my reflection.
`I want to see you suck my arse... I want to see you suck my fanny in the mirror.' Compliant to this sexpot, I crawled over and kneeled behind him, spread his cheeks and sucked. He looked in the mirror and stuck out his bottom and with one hand pressed my head further in, pressing my glasses into my face. I slurped loudly, he sighed heavily with intermittent squeak. Then he swivelled round and spread his legs, and I sucked his balls and then his phallus, and he ruffled my hair. I stretched up and commenced to lap up the sperm that by now had thinned and was trickling down his torso.
`Let me see!' And I opened my mouth and let him see. Then I pulled his face down and licked it, and he giggled and squirmed in my arms.
`Tee-hee. It's so bloody sexy, man! So damn sexy!' And he straddled my hips, adjusted my glasses, and hungrily covered my mouth with his and we snogged, tongues slippery with sperm. Finally, he pulled away and pressed his sticky face into my neck, kissing and kissing and kissing. And then his loud laughter, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. And he jumped up and onto the bed.
`Now you spatter onto my face. Tee-hee.' How? He lay me down, and himself lay crosswise with his head resting on my stomach, my cock resting on his cheek, his legs sticking out over the side of the bed. He'd toss me off into his face. Owzat? And there I lay, my fingers playing with his downy hair, his head bobbing up and down, the soft sound of slurping, and my free hand caressing those creamy white buttocks. I pulled him over so he was on his knees, straddling my breast, his arse in my face. I could barely see through my glasses, his skin had stained them so, but he did so want me to keep them on, didn't he? I spread his buttocks wide open and sucked the little pucker while he sucked on my phallus. This combination soon brought things to a head, and I told him I was coming. He pulled his mouth free and moved back, and I groaned into his arse, hearing my sperm splatter onto his face. He kept on wanking me and I kept on spurting till at last I sank back on the pillow and cried for him to stop. I felt him squeeze out more sperm and rub my glans against his lips, and again, and then he jumped up and again before the mirror. Again that naughty grin but this time much more heavily smeared with sperm, every-bloody-where. I crawled over and stood beside him, and he giggled, turning his head from side to side. There was sperm on his mouth, his lips, his nose, one cheek, one ear, an eyebrow, and streaks and droplets in his hair, almost invisible.
`I want a photograph, can I have a photograph?' This was in the days before digital photography, and I had no film, and anyway, it wasn't the kind of picture I could have developed at the local supermarket, was it? Probably get me arrested.
`I want it all in my mouth. Tee-hee. Scoop it up with your finger, ducks.' And slowly I pushed all the goo into his mouth. Even from his hair. He couldn't speak anymore, because he was keeping it all in his mouth, but he pointed at drops that I had missed. Then he opened his mouth and played with it, pushing it out between his lips and sucking it back in, wriggling a jellied tongue around, gargling in it, and then again gulping it down bit by bit, till at last he opened his mouth with a huge exaggerated sigh of satisfaction, a film of love-goo over his immaculate teeth. And we fell onto the bed and rolled about in passion, as hard as we had ever been. And this time we just wanked each other off, snogging all the while, stinking to high heaven of sperm and fresh teenage sweat and spit and sucked arsehole, and in our deranged state of mind, of course, it was a damn sexy stink. By the time we'd calmed down, however, we decided to have a shower, each by himself. I was first, for he wanted a real bath. While he filled the bathtub, I got dressed.
`I'm sorry, I'm so casual. You said it was casual.' It was casual. But I was wearing a tie. In my book, a tie was not dressing up, it was a colourful and attractive element in a boy's wardrobe.
`All right, all right, pukka sahib, but you've seen what I'm wearing.' I kissed him on his sticky mouth. A lovely duckling, a sex bomb duckling could eat in the nude as far as I was concerned, should eat in the nude. And he giggled and pulled my tie. `Tell me when we're ready to sit down.'
Dinner was roast beef followed by ice cream from Fortnum's. This was in the days before people stopped cooking, and settled for the now ubiquitous, inauthentic and usually pretty horrible pizza, delivered from some multinational American chain of ghastly pizza franchises. I had bought a good Spanish redwine for my guest's sake. I turned the lights out, lit the candles, and told him dinner was ready.
`Are you sitting down?' Yes. And he emerged from my bedroom in just his white schoolboy underpants and the heavy sandals. He sauntered in slowly, a big grin holding back his giggles. He twirled in front of the three full-length mirrors on the wall, and I sang:
`Small and tan and young and lovely, the boy from Ipanema...
`No,
`Blond and tan and young and lovely, the boy from Ipanema goes walking,
`And when he passes, each one he passes goes "Aaaarrhr!"'
And he came round and hugged me from behind. And we both roared `Aaaarrhr!' and his hair tickled my neck and his loud laughter, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. And I pulled back the chair for him, pushed it back in, kissed his back and the top of his head, and then the large white napkin tied round his slender neck, and then it was dinner for two boys in love, one in a dark blue suit and tie, the other stark naked but for alluring white schoolboy underpants. And I sang again:
`When he walks, he's like a samba, that swings so cool and sways so gentle,
`That when he passes, each one he passes goes "Aaaarrhr!"'
And again we roared `Aaaarrhr!' and again his loud laughter, his lovely, lovely loud laughter.
`People don't like to say "lovely" about a boy. That's only for girls. For boys, it's "young and handsome."'
`Bollocks! Absolute bollocks! If he swings so cool and sways so gentle, he's not handsome, is he? He's lovely... it's just sexism. The usual double-standard sexism, fear that boys should be described by beautiful words. "What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice" and then boys are made of horrid things. Pure sexism! Filthy, disgusting, self-serving female chauvinism.'
I poured myself the taster of wine while Frederic giggled behind his little hands. I couldn't keep a straight face, of course, but smiling continued my tirade. `Everyone sings "Aaaaah' but that's just mild regret. If the boy's so ravishing, and passes each day, it's not just mild regret, is it? It's pent up frustration and longing, and that's "Aaaarrhr!" And we both roared at each other: `Aaaarrhr!' And again, `Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrhrrr!'
`All right! All right!' Frederic giggled. `All right! I agree, I agree to everything! You're right, it's all a load of sexist bollocks!' And we laughed. And I poured him his wine and mine, and carved the beef and doled up the roast potatoes and the Yorkshire pud and the veggies and the gravy and a spoonful of mustard, and we tucked in in absolute silence. Just the sound of chewing and swallowing and smiling at each other and giggling inside food-filled mouths, and wiping our mouths with our napkins and Frederic's naked leg wrapped round the chair's leg, and I loved him, and his little hands holding the big knife and fork, and his glistening lips, and he was my sweet duckling, enjoying roast beef like Donald Duck in the comics, my roast beef, and delicate fingers grasping the crystal glass and the small mouth gulping down the wine, and perfect table manners, and giggle and I loved him, and his skinny arms, his bare shoulders, and little nipples peeping out under the large napkin, and the little stomach bulging a bit because he was sitting down, and a bit of untanned skin visible at the edge of his white underpants, and he smiled at me, and giggled, and we giggled, his eyes sparkling in the candle light.
We didn't speak till our plates were empty. It was bloody scrumptious, he said, and he wanted more, masses more, and I carved a thick slice of succulent beef.
`Who taught you to cook such scrumptious food, ducks?' Our cook. Many a boyhood hour was spent in the kitchen.
`I think my mum's onto me.' What did he mean?
`Well, she sort of been saying strange things.' Mmm? He put out a pretty hand to stop my piling more onto his plate.
`We went to the beach every single day, and the place was swarming with gorgeous Spanish boys. I mean just dazzling. They seemed to live on the beach. Tanned and wearing brightly coloured swimming briefs that drew your eyes to their crotch and their bum. Spaniards wear very colourful clothes. I was mesmerized.' Did he fancy them? Yes, of course, something rotten. And he got into a crowd of youngsters his own age. They were also still in school, boys and girls, and they were really, really fun and friendly.
`They called me Federico. "Aaaah, Federico, you are muy guapo!", that means "very sexy", and they plaited my hair.' They?
`Yes, the girls... I wanted the boys to plait my hair and say I was sexy.' Yeah, but maybe some of the boys did want to.
`Probably. Some of them were just so friendly, and those white teeth in their tanned faces, and their bulging Speedos, aaaah! One guy groped me a couple of times in the water but I didn't fancy him at all. Just my luck.
`Anyways, one day, my mother told me women would stop as I passed and turn round to look at me.' Aaaarrhr!
`Yes,' he giggled, `but after some days, she told me that men also looked at me, and some boys. And she pointed out a boy walking past, he'd always wear a red g-string. He was the only boy wearing a g-string. You know, with a string running up between the bum cheeks.' Did he have a nice bum?
`Yes, he did. Tee-hee. He was a bit like me, in fact, with long hair and a petit body. And my mum said he was always looking at me. She said "I think he fancies you." I was gobsmacked, and I blushed like crazy. And then she leaned over and asked me if I wanted a g-string! I couldn't believe it! And the next day, she casually mentioned that I didn't seem to notice the girls at all. Never looked at them. She said it as we were unpacking the car, didn't look at me, and just walked off into the house as soon as she'd said it, as if she'd planned it. Stop that in your pipe and smoke it Federico mi amigo!' Was she complaining?
`No, she was actually smiling as she said it.' The lovely duckling's maybe been sussed by his mama. Not easy to keep such things from Mommie Dearest.
`And this evening she said pointedly, "I take it you'll be... sleeping... sleeping at your friend's".' She singled out the word `sleeping' and repeated it. Bloody hell!
`And in the hall she said "I suppose that's the friend you wrote those long letters to". I was dumbstruck. I looked out into the hall and she'd gone into the kitchen. She was very diplomatic.' What did he say?
`Nowt. What was I going to say? "Yes, Mum, he's my true love, my one and only ducks."' What did he think was going to happen?
`I don't know. They're both such darlings, you know.' But they neglected him so much.
`Yes and no. They're both really, really sweet when they're around. They were absolute angels in Spain. And they never forget my birthday and you know how I'm always having gifts sent to school and hampers, etc.' Yes, but that's just things.
`Yes, but they do truly love me, I feel that. The problem is that they're so self-centered. That's all. They know so many charming people and are so charming themselves. And when we go out for dinner and the theatre, we have a ball!' Would they mind his loving a boy?
`I think my mother's worked it all out. Those letters were a dead giveaway and then I suppose she saw me beside her every day on the beach gazing at the beautiful boys and just not seeing the girls. I promise you, I genuinely didn't notice the girls. I didn't see them looking at me.' You're a bona fide poof Frederic my lad, a bona fide poof. And we both giggled.
Frederic raised his glass: `Here's to the two happiest poofter boys in the world!' Hear, hear, and down the hatch. We removed the dishes and our plates and carried them into the kitchen, my darling just in his little underpants! I took the ice-cream out of the fridge and put scoops into two soup bowls.
`After about three weeks, not long after the comment about my not looking at girls, we went for dinner at a local expat's house. I didn't want to go, `cause I'd be the only teenager, I was adamant. But my mum insisted. She said she wanted me to meet the man, Hugh. She kept on and on about it and eventually I relented, and off we went. A huge house with huge rooms and almost medieval furniture. He's a writer and shares the house with another Englishman and two Spaniards. I'm not good at ages, of course, but Hugh's probably my dad's age, and the other men are younger, and good looking. There were about twenty people at the dinner and everyone got very drunk. It was absolutely super. Even my father got drunk, and two old ladies dripping with pearls and diamonds completely drunk and tittering like little girls, spilling wine all over themselves and everyone else and no one paid the slightest attention. It was the wildest giggle, like something out of a novel.' Wish I'd been there. And now he embraced me from behind, pressed his whole body against mine.
`Oh, ducks, I wanted you every bloody day. Every bloody day.' And he squeezed me again and again, pressing his hard-on against my thigh, rubbing his hand up and down between my thighs. Aaah! He was giving me a hard-on!
`That's the idea, ducks, that's the idea.' And he reached round and slid his hand inside the waist of my trousers and into my underpants and held my cock in the hollow of his warm hand, gave it a good squeeze and a couple of wanks, cupped my balls and squeezed them gently. I moaned in protest and delight. He extracted his hand.
`The delicious food and wine has made me horny, ducks. The romantic candlelight has made me want to make luuuuv.' And again he pressed his crotch against my thigh and peered round my shoulder.
`I want four scoops, not three. Four, or five.' So I took out a soup plate, transferred his three scoops and added another four, and his loud laughter, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. I stuck a wafer in his mouth to keep him quiet. He opened wide and took it all in one mouthful, grinning with cheeks bulging.
Then we walked into the dining room, he crunching, his arm about my waist. I put his plate down at his place and sat down with my bowl. After a couple of mouthfuls, Frederic came over to my end of the table, carrying his plate, and sat on my lap. Oh, so beautiful brown and his white underpants!
`I want your propinquity, ducks. Mustn't waste the opportunity.' And we sat there quietly, his little bum on my swelling lap, his long hair in my nose. Then he put down his plate and slung his arm about my neck and whispered: `Kiss me, ducks.' And I kissed him and he kissed me, our mouths cool and sweet, and soon we were snogging like crazy, till our mouths were again warm. He brushed his hair aside the way he did, and my heart was bursting, and I was completely hard. He wriggled his bottom and we giggled.
`I was the youngest person by far, but Hugh talked a lot with me. He asked me about school and told me about his own schooldays. He then told me about goings on in the dormitories and how he'd had several passionate affairs with other boys, older and younger. He said in his day, older boys often had a favourite younger boy, and the younger boy was called his "tart". And then it dawned on me that he was a poof, and the other Englishman was either his boyfriend or merely another poof, and the two young Spaniards, were their toyboys or something. But they didn't behave poofy or anything, they were just an absolute scream. And I realized my mother had wanted me to meet Hugh because he was queer, can you believe it? As if being queer was like a shared hobby. "Here, let me show you my collection of model aeroplanes."' Yes, people'd think you have something in common merely because you're queer. That was why I wasn't keen on any gay clubs or such.
We hugged tight, oh, so tight, and I nuzzled my face into his hair. Snog, snog, and we cleared up as the coffee was brewing. We broke open the bottle of Fundador brandy that he'd brought, and then he lounged in my lap, naked and warm in my arms, his soft bottom pressing against my crotch, his hair tickling my face, and his smell! Clean, warm boy, and I sucked his one armpit for a bit, and then a quick snog, and relax.
`It's really sexy, you know.' Didn't I just. A gorgeous brown boy naked in my arms, his lovely buns in my laps, his white underpants bulging and wet, what more could a poofter ask for? And he laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely, loud laughter.
`No, I mean, the propinquity of me almost nude and you in a suit and tie and shoes. It makes me feel really sexy. It's so naughty. Naughtier than if we were both nude.' I lit us cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, and then slipped my hand inside his underpants and fondled his parts and fingered his arsehole. He grinned and wriggled his bottom.
`D'you know what you call a boy's arse?' His bum? He shook his head, grinning. His bottom? `No, those are ordinary words. This is a special word for when you love his arse.' His jacksy? He shook his head. Cinammon ring? Starfish? Rosebud? Gary Glitter? And he giggled.
`Rosebud's rather sweet, isn't it. And Gary Glitter? Where d'you hear that?' On the building site. They had some of the most amazing expressions. Buggery was taking it up the Gary Glitter.
`Well, this expression has `boy' in it.' I didn't know. Frederic pressed his lips against my ear and whispered: `Boy fanny.' His boy fanny? `Tee-hee, his boy fanny. Isn't it sweet? You don't lick my arse, you lick my boy fanny.' And we both roared: `Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrhrrr!' And I prodded his boy fanny with my finger and he wriggled and laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely, loud laughter.
Who said? `Hugh, at that uproarious dinner. It was towards the end, I was drunk and he was drunk, and he was caressing my thigh, and that was when he told me about the night games at his school. And he said you don't roger a boy's arse but his fanny, his boy fanny. He said an arsehole is for evacuation of the bowels, a boy fanny is for sexual congress, for love. Tee-hee, amorous ingress and egress.' And we both laughed. Ingress and egress.
`It can also be "boy cunt", which is gross, or "boy pussy", which is not bad either.' That was too much a girly word. `Fanny' was better. And I rubbed his fanny with my finger, and he moaned and we snogged.
He whispered into my face. `Amorous ingress and egress. Do it.' I poked my fingertip into his anus, wriggled it.
Again he whispered. `D'you wanna fuck me up the arse?' I looked at him. He was smiling expectantly. I wriggled my fingertip. I wasn't sure I wanted to stick my thingy up his fanny. Never considered it. He smirked.
`I have.' He had?
`Yeah. When I masturbate, I always rub my fanny. Then you sucked my fanny and I almost died with pleasure. Now I stick my finger inside when I masturbate. It's made me think. Maybe I'd like your lovely thingy up my fanny.' But his fanny was so small, so tight, and I pressed my fingertip into his fanny. See? It won't go in.
`Your finger's dry, ducks. A dry finger cannot go into a dry arse. You need something to facilitate ingress, like vaseline or oil or something... I use pre-cum or butter.' And he unzipped my fly, stuck his hand into the fly of my underpants and extracted my swollen and leaking cock. And down he went and aaaah! I was still such a greenhorn that the sensation was overwhelming, and I wanted to come. Stop! He pulled up and grinned at me and we snogged, his warm little hand wrapped round my steel-hard cock. We watched his little hand slide the foreskin up and down a bit, expertly rubbing the pre-cum round the corona.
`Look.' And full of wonderment, I watched him roll slightly, squeeze pre-cum out of my cock onto his fingertips and then his hand into his underpants behind and a grin as he applied it to his fanny. His own cock big and hard inside his underpants, and leaking too. He rolled onto his back and extracted it through the fly, and the freckle on his foreskin.
`Give it a suck, ducks, please.' And I moved over beside him. It was a tight squeeze on the sofa, so I knelt on the floor, and sucked his lovely little member, so hard, so smooth in my mouth.
`Stop, ducks, stop, stop. Not yet!' And I pulled away and squeezed a big gob of pre-cum out and he rolled onto his side and pulled one leg of his underpants to the side to expose his fanny. I gave his fanny a big noisy suck, and then applied the pre-cum and rubbed and wriggled and my finger slid inside with great ease, and he sighed. I pushed my finger right in, right up to the knuckle, and then slid it in and out. The tightness gripped my finger and the heat made me tingle with desire. He raised a leg up onto my shoulder.
`Suck it, ducks, suck it.' And I bent my head down between his thighs and sucked the glistening phallus sticking out of his white underpants, the two freckles on the shaft. Immediately he groaned and gasped and I tasted his sperm in my mouth. And in a flash, I whipped out the hanky from my breast pocket and wrapped it over my cock and squirted like crazy, and I sucked and sucked, and gulped down his seed, my finger in and out of his hot little arse. And we remained quietly, his thigh on my shoulder, his hands roaming over my head, I lazily mouthing his crotch, lightly sucking his balls, his cock, his thighs. I lowered his leg and moved up and we snogged. Wriggled my finger inside him and he sighed as I slowly pulled it out. I held up my finger and sniffed it. It was clean and slick and smelt of boy's fanny. He took my hand and sniffed my finger we giggled.
`Boy fanny. Boy's hot fanny... tee-hee, a new scent for the modern man.' Loved by men since the beginning of time. And we giggled. Seductively he sucked my finger and ummed.
`Very tasty. Boy fanny. I want more, please.' Does the gentleman wish for another sample? Coming right up. And I slid my finger back up his fanny. And we laughed.
`Two, please, Sir. A two-fingered sample, please.' And smiling he watched as I went through the whole routine again of applying pre-cum but to two fingers, and then slid them up his fanny, and he sighed with contentment. I slipped them in and out a bit and wriggled them about, and he moaned with his mouth open, and then I held them up. The smell was stronger now, and I was hard as stone again. He sniffed my two fingers and then sucked them sensuously.
`Mmmm, very tasteeee!' And we lay quietly, gazing at each other, snogged and snogged, the air sweet with the perfume of boy's fanny and his lemony cologne. Then he removed my hanky from my cock, and sucked and licked the wet, and then tucked it back into my breast pocket.
`Sit up here again, ducks', and I sat on the sofa again with my shirt and tie pulled up, my trousers open, and my cock hard and leaking, stains of sperm here and there. He sucked and licked me clean, and expertly brought me to another ejaculation. Sucked me dry, smiled up at me, and tucked everything back inside.
`The place smells of boy sex. We probably do too. Better clean up, my parents will be here soon.' I nodded and got up, and we walked arm in arm to the bathroom, his cock visibly hard in his underpants. As he washed his face, I kneeled behind him and pulled down his underpants and rubbed my face in his little buttocks, and rimmed him greedily, one hand round the front to wank him.
`Ooooh, ducks! Oh, oh, oh!' He moaned quietly, and I swivelled him round and pulled his underpants down his thighs and gave him a second blow job, he sighing and ruffling my hair with his hands. Then I pulled up his underpants and a handtowel in warm water to clean him up and he ran into the bedroom to put on his clothes. I washed and smartened myself up, and went into the drawing room. He returned in his pale yellow shirt and pale blue jeans and a dark blue wind-breaker, looking so smart. I told him so.
`It's all for you, ducks, all for you.' He stuck his bum out, hugged by the tight jeans.
`You like?' I told him he was more and more gorgeous the more I looked at him. And he sat in my lap, an arm about my neck, his head resting on my shoulder. And thus we sat, hugging each other, my cock hard again, pressing against his soft bottom, he wriggling it with a giggle again and again.
`My fanny's ready for sexual congress, ingress and egress.' And we sat there, waiting for his parents, delirious both of us, delirious with love for the other.
Frederic's mother was slightly fleshy, not fat or plump, just voluptuous, and she looked like a lush, a real sexpot. He had her lips and her hair so blond it bordered on ivory white, a whole sheet of it beautifully combed down one side of her head. And he had his father's boyish figure and features. They had invited me for dinner the next time Frederic came home from school. I turned up at their huge house, heart beating, nervous as the wooer seeking the consent for marriage from his future fiancé's parents. Would they make our love difficult? Would they set themselves against it? A couple of dry martinis and his parents' immense charm and grace put me completely at ease, and the evening ended up being elegant and fun. I could understand why he adored them, in spite of their extreme self-centredness. The inevitable interrogation was conducted in such a discreet and roundabout way that only afterwards did I realize what they had done. No hint was given of their knowing that Frederic and I were lovers, but there was repeated approval of our being together, his adoration of me being a subject of repeated and good-natured banter. There was none of the very common and tiresome friction between parents and their children, Frederic obviously trying his utmost to present himself and me in the very best light. After one o'clock in the morning, I was put in a pre-paid taxi for home, more than slightly drunk. I stumbled into bed, remembering only that Frederic and I were going to that very day in the afternoon, he would be staying for dinner, and his parents had asked if he could stay with me over the Autumn half-term, for they wanted to go for a week-end at friend's country house in Wales. Frederic didn't want to go for there were only grown-ups and small children. I agreed, trying not to sound too ecstatic about it.
The day was overcast with the odd shower of light rain. We met at the cinema, to see Love Story with Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw. Frederic innocent in his tight pale blue jeans and a tight cherry turtleneck and his windbreaker, faded dark blue Converse sneakers on bare feet, and his shining eyes. It was an early showing with the cinema only three-quarters full. We sat in the middle of the cinema, and there were people behind us and in front. Frederic whispered.
`Lovers are supposed to hold hands, aren't they?' I nodded but we couldn't. We could only sit like two strangers. He took off his windbreaker and put it in his lap. His arms so slender and sweet! His collarbones sticking out in his turtleneck and the long hair! The triangle of his smile!
After maybe half-an-hour, he whispered again: `This film is deadly boring.' I agreed. Bloody waste of money.
`I'm having a wank.' A bulge in the middle of his windbreaker moved up and down. I wanted to slide my hand in and do it for him, lean over and open my mouth.
`I'm going to the loo.' And grinning, he fiddled about under his windbreaker and then got up, holding it in front of his crotch. I reckoned he'd gone to finish his wank, but he returned and pulled me by the hand and I followed. He led me to some seats in a far corner, where there were very few people. Nobody seemed to notice, their eyes glued to the boring story on the screen.
Frederic sat up against the wall and again covered his lap with his windbreaker. As soon as I sat down, he looked round and then sneaked his hand inside the waistband of my trousers. I loosened the belt and undid the top button, and his hand went inside my underpants and watching the screen, he fondled my genitals, especially my balls, squeezing them gently. I became hard at once and sneaked my hand into the back of his jeans. He had undone them, so it was easy, and I sneaked my fingers down to his fanny. And we sat quietly caressing one another: I his fanny, he my cock, rubbing the flow of pre-cum round and round. I was able to reach round to the front of his jeans and scoop up pre-cum onto my fingertips and I heard him sigh quietly as I slid two fingers inside. This was all done with stealth but not much, for we could see everyone in the cinema, and everyone was intent on the love story on the screen. I watched his pretty mouth, slightly open as I wriggled my fingers inside him, God, I wanted to kiss him and suck his little phallus! I could see his free hand going up and down under his windbreaker, and I slid my fingers about an inch in and out, right up to the knuckle, my hand squashed under his bottom. His removed his hand from my crotch and raised his windbreaker slightly, and I could see his delicate hand grasping his pretty cock, the freckle on his foreskin moving fast up and down, and a deep suppressed sigh and he squirted onto the back of the seat in front of him, all the while watching the screen. Two full squirts and then a smaller one that splashed onto the floor, and then he looked at me with a smile. He looked down and squeezed out the last sperm and raised his hand to his mouth, seemingly absentmindedly licking off the sperm. I wanted to do that. He squeezed once more and then his windbreaker over his lap again and he whispered.
`Let's go.' Surreptitiously I fastened my jeans again and the belt and we walked out. The corridor was empty. Frederic giggled and then we both laughed.
`How long to go?' About half-an-hour or so. And he took my hand and led me into the loo. MEN. The crease between his bum cheeks, how they rolled!
It was empty and smelt of disinfectant. Not a sound. He pulled me into the last cubicle and sat down on the loo. Expertly, he unbuttoned my fly, and pulled out my phallus. He looked at me with his, oh, so lovely boyish smile and then pulled my cock down to his mouth, drew aside his hair, and sucked. I was so turned on by the sight of him wanking in the gloom, I came after only a few sucks of his hot mouth. I cupped his little head in my hands as I spurted into his mouth. He sucked and sucked and then drew away and looked up at me, sperm on his chin, and licked his lips, and gulped. Grinned, his white teeth glistening with sperm. Then he sucked me dry and tried to tuck me back in. That was difficult, so I took over, and he sat back, grinning, and licking his lips. He stood up on the loo and leaned over me, his arms resting on my shoulders, and we snogged, his mouth all gooey with my sperm. I licked his chin clean and we snogged some more. And, of course, he was hard again, and with delight, I sucked him off. Nobody came into the loo while we were there. We crept out of the cubicle and Frederic examined his face and mouth in the mirror, grinning at me in the mirror, adjusted his turtleneck, stuck his hand inside his jeans and adjusted his genitals, giggling quietly. And we walked out of the cinema, besotted, exhilarated, infatuated, excited, about to burst almost with utter delight.
We didn't speak, as if embarrassed by our little escapade in the cinema. As if we'd gone too far this time. Frederic took us into an Italian café and ordered an espresso and an Italian sandwich with sausage and cheese, and sat down in a distant corner. Silently, we gobbled up the delicious sandwich, rather expensive, but Frederic's parents were paying. We lit up and sat gazing at each other. His pouty lips when he sucked on the fag, his slender neck, the delicate fingers, and his shining eyes gazing with love at me. I was paralytic with love. Frederic smiled and blushed lightly.
`What are you looking at, ducks?' And I blushed, my lower lip a-trembling, my eyes watering. I was speechless with wonder. Speechless that he had entered my life in this way. I tried to speak, but something was sticking in my throat, love I suppose, so nothing came out except a kind of desperate sigh. And then I told him I'd lie in bed at night in wonder. And then I croaked. Frederic giggled in sympathy.
`You need a roborant, ducks.' A what? And he laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely, loud laughter.
`Roborare is Latin meaning to strengthen. The present participle is roborant, in English meaning a pick-me-up, a strengthener, a tonic. Tee-hee, and you need a roborant, ducks.' And he got up and walked over to the bar. I watched him, the delicate figure with long hair, so boyish and confident, his divinely small and round buttocks. The barman was besotted, people turned to look at him, everyone fell in love. The barman was laughing and Frederic's laughter drifted over to me, as I watched my darling duckling interact with the world, paying our bill. And the barman watched him as he came back. Those slender thighs and little Converse sneakers brought a glass of Fernet Branca. He put it on the table.
`Drink up, ducks, and then we need to be off.' Yes, masser, yes, bass. I thrilled at being ordered about by my love. Nothing sadomasochistic about it, just the fact that this fourteen-year-old elf trusted my love so much that he would do so. It delighted me to do what he wanted to do. And I knocked back the bitter drink. Frederic pulled my hanky out of my trouser pocket and gave it to me, and I wiped my eyes. God, how I loved the intimacy of his knowing I always had a hanky in my left pocket, and pulling it out for me to use. Was this why some people loved being married? Someone who is like your second half, who has your welfare always at heart, and you his?
We walked out, and when we came out, Frederic linked his arm with mine. `I think this is OK, don't you? We look like brothers. Good friends can walk arm in arm can't they? Let's try.' And I wobbled along with my love leaning against me, his little hand holding my arm.
`I wanna lie in your arms, ducks. I don't want to pretend anymore. I wanna kiss you and cuddle and love. Let's take a cab, I can't wait.' His voice was tight, as if he too was about to cry. And he walked out into the middle of the street and flagged down a cab. Sitting in the back, we held hands in secret. We hardly spoke.
`I don't wanna go see Grandpa tomorrow. I want to lie in bed with you all day.' He spoke with a low voice, looking out of the window. His lower lip trembled and his eyes were wet. I wanted to tell him he shouldn't not see his Grandpa but I kept quiet. His trembling lip made my heart ache.
He squeaked: `I see you so rarely, ducks.' And he gave a choking sigh. Oh, my boy! And we sat there in silence, in agony. He paid the taxi as I opened the front door, and then he ran up and snatched the keys out of my hand and ran ahead of me up the stairs, his little bum rocking in those tight jeans, his hair flying, and giggle, giggle. I didn't try to catch up, but walked up at a leisurely pace. The door was open, the keys still in the lock. I removed them and hung them up on their hook.
`Into the bedroom, ducks, now. Wait for me.' He was in the kitchen. I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed. He came in with a pat of butter on a saucer and one of my big white napkins. I stood up.
`No, ducks, please sit down. I've got it all worked out.' And I sat down. He put the butter on the bed and sat on my lap, his arm about my neck. We kissed, I slid a hand inside his jeans and caressed his bum.
`Will you make love to me?' Of course. I loved making love to him.
`No, I mean the real thing.' I looked at him. All our sex was all for real.
`Yes, yes, I know, but I want the ultimate. Up my fanny, ducks', and he giggled, `amorous ingress and egress.' And he giggled again. Was he sure?
`Dreaming of it every day, ducks. Dreaming of it in class, dreaming of it during meals, dreaming of it in bed, dreaming of it while wanking, dreaming of it in the shower, dreaming of it all the time, ducks.' He bumped his fanny in my crotch as he spoke.
`I've been practising. Two fingers, three fingers, I even pinched one of my father's empty cigar tubes.' Stuck it up his bum?
`Yup. Warm water inside and then butter to make it nice and slippery.' We both giggled.
`Will you? Will you?' I wasn't sure. His fanny was so small and innocent, how could I stuff my big cock inside? In between those pretty little buttocks? I rubbed his anus.
`Don't worry, ducks. I told you, I've practised, tee-hee, even a courgette, a big fat one.' Up his fanny.
`Right up my boy fanny. I put a condom on, to make it smooth, and fucked myself with it till I almost died.' He smiled and I got the giggles. A courgette? A bloody courgette! And we laughed.
`It was fatter than your thingy.' And we laughed and laughed, and I hugged him. My naughty, naughty duckling. Up his fanny. What about... well... what's inside?
`What's inside? You mean crap?' I nodded.
`I don't know, ducks. No idea. It happened only once, I could feel it with my finger. When I used the courgette, it was clean.' So I could get some on my willy?
`Yeah, it'll wash off, I promise... Tee-hee, if it happens, I'll let you tie me up and do what you like with me.' I wasn't interested in tying him up. I made love to him because I loved him. It was an expression of love, not a science of sensations. That's for whores. Frederic giggled.
`All right, Mr Goody Two-Shoes, Mr Pious and Proper who likes to suck my fanny and eat my cum, all right Mr Sticks His Fingers Up My Bum, whatever you say.' And we giggled. All right, all right, if he really wanted it, but he was in charge. I had no idea.
`Don't worry, ducks, I've seen pictures.' Pictures?
`There's a new boy, he brought a homo magazine about a month ago. It circulated. You could rent it for an afternoon or evening. There were gorgeous Spaniard-like boys sucking each other and buggering each other up the fanny. So I've got an idea how to go about it.' And he kissed me, and we snogged, his hand down between my thighs.
`Game?' Game. Lead on MacDuff. I could not continue the quotation.
`It's not "Lead on, MacDuff", it's "Lay on, MacDuff, and damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"' All right, my sweet scholar, but if it hurt or something, he had to cry `Hold, enough!' Promise?
`Promise.' As he spoke, he took a chair and placed it in front of the cupboard. Opened the cupboard so the chair was reflected in the mirror inside. Then he leaned over with his arms on the back of the chair, with his bottom stuck out. There was a sideways reflection in the mirror. He moved the chair forward a bit to make sure his bottom was in the centre of the mirror. Then he leaned over, his arms on the back of the chair, his head resting on his arms.
`Don't undress me, just pull down my jeans and my undies.' Feverishly I knelt behind him and pressed my face into the crease between his buttocks. Rubbed my face in it like a dog trying to get rid of ants on his snout, and he wriggled his bum. I then reached round and unfastened his belt, and with trembling hands, I undid the buttons of his jeans, my breath mere shallow gasps. I pulled down his jeans.
`Don't take them off, ducks, leave them round my ankles.' And I pulled them down to his ankles, and ran my face up and down his bare thighs so slender. Then I tugged down his white schoolboy underpants, down to his ankles. There, his lovely arse bare before me. I stood up and stared at the beauteous sight. Is there anything more erotic than a fully dressed boy, with his jeans and underpants round his ankles and his sweet bare bottom sticking out a bit, waiting for love? The curves of those little buttocks, their smoothness, the cleavage, the boy looking over his shoulder expectantly, his shirt slightly mussed, his feet uneven, one pointing to the left, the other straight forward. Frederic giggled. His delicate hands appeared and he pulled apart his buttocks, revealing his little pucker, his boy fanny.
`Come on, ducks. Stop gloating.' And I knelt down behind him and again plunged my face into the cleavage, and fed on his fanny, slurp, suck, slurp. It was hot almost and slightly sweaty from sitting in the cinema, and I sniffed and savoured the odour. Frederic wriggled his arse and sobbed with pleasure, sticking his bottom out a bit more, spreading his legs, giving me better access.
`Take the butter! Take it!' And I reached out and took the saucer.
`Two fingers! Quick!' And I scooped up some butter on two fingers and applied it to his anus, fingering his anus, sliding two fingers inside. It was tight but they slid right in. I wriggled my fingers inside him.
`Three!' And I pulled out and butter on my ring finger and then three fingers. He exhaled as I slid them in. Hot and tight, and my cock hard, hard, hard, and leaking.
`Your cock!' My cock was inside my trousers, damn! I pulled out my fingers and wiped them on the napkin and undid my trousers and pulled them down, and my underpants, and then butter onto my leaking phallus. My breath was small gasps, oh, god, I was going to bugger my duckling! My duckling's lovely little arse, his boy fanny!
`Come on, what's keeping you?' His voice wasn't annoyed, just yearning. I stood up and rubbed my glans up and down his buttered fanny, and he moaned. I trembled with wonderment. This my beloved lovely blond boy with his little bottom stuck out begging me to fuck him up the arse, his hands pulling his buttocks apart. Who would have imagined?
I pressed against his fanny and my cock slipped. Again, and again it slipped. Everything was very gooey. I moved right up to him and held my cock with one hand and pressed... pressed... pressed... and, oh, my god, the ring of his anus expanded, slowly, slowly, and he whined and sighed, and there, bloody hell, his sphincter expanded and clamped onto the neck of my corona. So tight, so hot. Frederic whined impatiently.
`Push it in, come on!' I couldn't, I was already on the edge. Just let me calm down. Not easy, what with the sight of his little fanny, gripping my glans. I tried to look away, close my eyes, think of something unerotic. Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw kissing, visualize them. There, and without opening my eyes, I pushed further, aaaah! It was so tight and hot and he whined and I slid in about three inches. I opened my eyes. His fanny was stretched it seemed almost obscenely. Maybe that was enough.
`You're not all in. I can see it in the mirror. I want it all. Right up till your balls touch my bum. Lay on! Fuck me!' He was using the f-word, getting really excited, so I pushed in further. Now I held onto his narrow hips and watched with wonder as my phallus slid into his little bottom, all the way, his innards almost grabbing hold of my phallus, it was insanely hot and tight, and I was right on the edge of exploding. His little bottom so sweet. Did it hurt?
`No, it doesn't hurt, but it feels strange, I can tell you.' He was gasping as he spoke.
`All the way in?' Yes. All the way. His left hand released his left buttock and his fingers fiddled about at the point of contact, round and round his expanded anus. He had calmed down now.
`Bloody hell, ducks, your thing is inside me, the whole thing.' That was what he wanted wasn't it?
`Yes, I know, but it's still amazing', and he wriggled his bottom. `Now ingress and egress.'
His hands were gripping the chair and he stared at the mirror as I began to slide out, and he let out a great groan. Did it hurt?
`No, it just feels strange. Go on. Slowly.' And slowly I slid in and out of his little fanny, there between his little buttocks. Hot it was, hot, and tight, so tight, and the sensation so intense, I had to stop.
`Go on, ducks, go on, please.' I was going to come. I couldn't last, it was too intense
`Never mind, ducks, you can fuck me again. Come on, in and out.' And he thrust his bottom back against my crotch. And I held onto his hips and slid in and almost out a few times and he grunted at each ingress and sighed at each egress. Then I groaned out loud as I spurted and spurted what felt like cupfuls of sperm into his fanny, up his rectum, in between those two little buttocks. And then I stopped, panting. And we were silent, just breathing hard, his head down, his hands clasping the back of the chair.
`My legs are tired. I want to lie down.' Slowly I pulled out, his fanny gripping me hard, reluctant to let go, and out came my phallus, huge compared to his little bum. It was slick with butter and sperm and presumably his fanny juices. There was no filth.
`Is it clean?' There was butter and sperm but no filth. Pure boy fanny.
`See?' I watched with wonder as his fanny remained open, a perfect O, the flesh red inside, as was my glans penis. Then his fanny closed and pucker was as before, although slightly inflamed. He stood up. Wobbled a bit and jumped onto the bed.
`Don't wanna stain your clothes, ducks, please take them off. And then fuck me again. Again. Come on.' Again? His cock wasn't hard, just swollen. He hadn't enjoyed it. Why did he want it again? I tore off my clothes at schoolboy speed, my glistening cock hard and swinging. Frederic had removed everything except his turtleneck and lay on the bed on his back, with his knees spread and up, his hand down at his fanny, a finger sliding in and out. I asked him to put his shoes on again, and then I climbed naked onto the bed and waited. He stood in front of the mirror, his willy at half-mast, in between the cherry turtleneck and the blue Converse shoes on his feet.
`There's something so erotic about being half-dressed, isn't there? Depravity dressed as innocence.' And he jumped onto the bed on his knees. He climbed over me and moved up, adjusted my glasses, and then pulled back his foreskin and rested his glans on my lips. And I commenced to suck his willy, two fingers sliding in and out of his slippery fanny. We had eye contact, and his eyes were soft with lust and love, and his willy became very hard.
`Lie on your back, ducks.' I lay on my back and he climbed over me, jumped up and adjusted the cupboard mirror, came back, and again up and adjusted it, and then back. Now positioned himself over my crotch, a knee on either side of me and a big smile, his willy sticking out before me.
`Hold it upright.' I held my cock upright and he raised himself till his fanny was touching the tip. Steadying himself with one hand on the bed, he rubbed his fanny over my glans, I squeezed and smeared his fanny with my pre-cum.
`Ready?' Lay on, MacDuff. And he pressed his fanny down, and my cock slid to the side.
I told him to let his bodyweight do the work. And again, face in deep concentration, he pressed his fanny against my glans, and slid all the way down my phallus with a deep sigh, and I moaned, so hot, so tight! He sat there impaled on my big cock, sighing. I sat up in excitement and put my arms round his waist. He took my hands and placed them on his hips, put his arms round my neck, resting them on my shoulders, and then he slid up and down, gently. I sat up and we snogged, he giving a little squeak each time he hit rock bottom. We snogged and snogged, his cock like a piece of wood rubbing against my belly. And then he squealed and squealed and sobbed and sobbed and I felt wet on my chest and belly. He had ejaculated with his arms round my neck! I stopped.
`I came ducks. Hell's bells, I came, hands off!' And we snogged wildly and I grasped his cock and squeezed the remaining sperm out and rubbed it round and round. And he continued sliding up and down, now faster and faster, his face in my shoulder, squeak, sigh, squeak, sigh, my hands down cupping his hard little buttocks. I pressed my face against his neck and as I could feel my orgasm approaching, I pulled his face up to mine and we snogged, and I ejaculated into his boy fanny, deep inside. He moaned and moaned into my mouth as I squirted and then we sat quietly, hugging each other, both of us breathing heavily. And we sat in silence, my phallus softening inside him, and hugged one another. The smell of sperm and boy fanny and hot bodies heavy in the air, his hair tickling my shoulder, and then my phallus slipped out of him.
`There, ducks. You've fucked me up the arse, tee-hee.' He whispered. Climbed off me and studied my crotch.
`No filth.' And he reached over for the napkin and wiped my phallus clean. Slid the foreskin up and down gently, and then proceeded to suck. I stroked his pretty hair and watched in wonderment as his lippy mouth slid up and down my phallus. And then he raised his head and smiled and lay on top of me, our stomachs sticky with his sperm. He brushed my hair back.
`Love me, ducks?' I hugged him tight. Love was not the word. He was my saviour, my prophet, had led me out of the valley of darkness. And he rested his head in my neck, again whispered.
`We've lost our innocence, ducks... we're no longer innocent schoolboys playing around.' Did he mind?
`I don't know, ducks. Don't know.' And he stroked my hair away from my forehead like a mother, stroked my face.
`It was a kind of consummation, I suppose.' And he rolled over and lay beside me, his arm stretching across my torso, his lips touching my shoulder.
`It makes things more serious, doesn't it? We've stepped over the line...' He regretted it?
`I don't know, ducks, don't know. That was sodomy... and now we're sodomites... Bonafide buggers.' And he looked down as he reached down and fondled my genitals. I didn't know what to say. Suddenly all those intense sensations seemed absurd.
`Now I understand why boys have like being buggered through the millenia... but I don't know.' And we lay quietly, and I reached over and gently fondled his genitals. And we fell asleep.
It was dark when I awoke. I turned the bedside lamp on. Eight o'clock. Frederic lay beside me, his hand in my crotch. I stroked his face until he woke up and smiled.
`It's eight in the evening.' And he smiled and turned to stretch, arms over his head. His hand went down between his legs.
`My boy fanny's tender.' Should I kiss it better? And he rolled over and spread his legs and with his hands spread his buttocks and I bent over and kissed his boy fanny. Kissed it and licked it and sucked it and kissed it with a big smacker. Better now?
`Only after a kiss, tee-hee.' And he pouted his lovely lips, and we kissed and snogged.
`Your mouth smells of boy fanny, tee-hee, my boy fanny.' And he sniffed my mouth, mmmed, and we giggled. And he turned round and we commenced on a sixty-nine, and slurp, slurp, and we sucked each other's balls, and the silken skin of the scrotum, and the smooth upper thigh, and the smell, and slippery pre-cum, and a finger up the fanny and he came and I came and we both swallowed and then lay heads resting on one another's thigh, kissing and caressing. He was playing with my foreskin.
`You know so and so?' (He mentioned the name of one of his form mates.) Yes, I did. We were both speaking into each other's crotch.
`He's had it cut off.' What?
`His foreskin. It looks absolutely horrible. There's a scar all the way round. It gives me the shivers.' Yes, I also found it horrible. They do it when you're a baby, powerless. In some countries, little girls are mutilated that way, and then all the mothers in the West scream and shout about cruelty and what not. But gleefully they take their little boys to the clinic to have them mutilated.
`Why do they do it?' Many say it's for hygiene. If you don't wash round your knob, it gets dirty and smelly. You get white stuff accumulating, like cheese. He raised his head and I turned to get eye contact.
`That's stupid... that's completely stupid.' What is? Cutting of the foreskin to keep your knob clean. Why was that stupid?
`Well, if your don't wash behind your ears, you get stuff accumulating, or if you don't brush your teeth. According to that rationale, we should all have our teeth pulled out, and our ears and toes cut off, "for hygiene". Completely stupid!'
The ultimate manifestation of penis envy. `What?'
The mother is jealous that her little boy is a boy, so she has him mutilated. Mothers delight in seeing their little boy mutilated. See their eyes sparkle as they witness the bleeding boy cry out in pain. Frederic sat up and turned and pressed himself on me, crotch to crotch, and I bent my neck to kiss him.
`I don't want to go home, ducks. I want to stay with you. I want to move in with you. I want to marry you. Wake up beside you every morning, and smell my boy fanny on your mouth.' I clasped him tight and sighed. Sweet boy, darling duckling, living in dreams.
His parents were spending the week-end in Wales, he was spending it with me. He was going to come straight from school on the Friday afternoon, and I'd pick him up at the station. His parents had given him not only a wadge of cash but also a gift card for a full tea for two at Fortnum's, and there we'd decide how to spend the evening. I was now at university and my uncle had been so pleased with how I looked after his flat and paid the rent, he said I could live in his flat until I had taken my degree, this time for free.
When I saw Frederic at the station, I wanted to smother him with kisses and caresses but had to make do with the polite handshake, as if we were mere friends. He looked so cute in his school schoolboy uniform, and his blue eyes sparkled as he gazed at me. His letters had made it quite clear that we were to spend most of the week-end in bed. I was greeted by a number of his classmates that I had known myself, and then we took a cab. In the cab, we held hands under our coats, and even managed to caress thighs. He chatted on about school, whereas I merely adored. We agreed to stuff ourselves and then have only a light late dinner so we had scones and sandwiches and tea cakes galore. We bought a kipper and a quiche lorraine, and some bread and cheese and chutney and things to take with us and then a cab back to the flat.
I had barely locked the door behind me before he pounced and we snogged like crazy, and then we stood beaming at one another, I stroking his lovely long hair, in disbelief that he was in my arms and loving.
`I want to make love, ducks, now. Come on, no delay. Into the dining room.' He had specified that we were to make love in front of the full length mirrors. Dine off each other, he said.
`Shall I take a shower first? I'm not dirty or sweaty but I have been about all day in my school uniform.' Was his boy fanny clean? And laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. Yes, it was clean, and no details. As long as he was clean, I wanted his warm boyish smell. And he sniffed under my jacket, sniff, sniff, yum, yum, and we giggled and hugged, both of us straining at the crotch by now. And we walked into the dining room. As we stood there looking at ourselves in the mirrors suddenly we felt shy.
`This is so damn naughty, ducks. Damn saucy.' And we snogged. Then I had him stand at the end of the dining table, his bum on the edge, and I sat down on the chair with him standing before me. I ran my hands up and down his thighs, feeling their boyish skinniness through the thin grey material, and I rubbed my face in his crotch. His little stiffy felt like wood through the layers of his underpants and his trousers. Reflexively, he leaned forward, cupping my head with his hands and moaning lightly. I sniffed his crotch and rubbed my face in it, from side to side, and then greedily undid his belt, and undid the fly buttons slowly. Such lovemaking was always a bit inconvenient with glasses on but he insisted. I looked up at his thin face smiling down at me, his lips glistening with spit, his one hand stroking the back of my head lovingly. Shivering with desire, I pulled down his grey trousers, baring those skinny thighs. I sighed heavily and rubbed my face in his thighs, sniffing the smell of warm boy, and pulled up his shirt and tie to expose his white underpants. Heaven! Is there any sight more cute and innocent than a pretty boy in white underpants, and when he's aroused any sight more erotic? The outline of his stiffy and his two testicles, and a nice patch of wet precum, and the way his underpants fit snugly up between his buttocks? Again I rubbed my face almost reverentially against his crotch, running my lips up and down his phallus, mouthing his testicles, rubbing my fingers between his buttocks. The next stage was to swivel him round and have him bend over the dining table, resting his upper body on the table top, his perfect little buttocks sticking out for me to worship. Almost in a fever, I pressed my face in between those two clothed globes, running my face up and down the gap, inhaling the heat and scent of boy fanny. He stumbled slightly as he spread his legs further, and his delicate fingers grasped from either side and opened the gap further, and I rimmed him through the white fabric of his underpants, my heart throbbing at the sight of his crumpled blue blazer above and his bare thighs below, with his grey trousers gathered round his ankles, resting on his shiny black shoes. When I thought I would surely faint from erotic overkill, I pulled down his white underpants, exposing his creamy white buttocks and the little pink pucker, and the alluring smell of hot boy. And then I removed my glasses and rimmed him like one possessed, running my hands up and down his thighs and the soft fabric of his briefs held just below his buttocks. The only sounds in the room were his cooing, the shifting of cloth as he twisted his body from side to side, and my sniffing and sighing. I watched with amazement the reflection of my face buried between his buttocks, and his lemon hair swinging as he turned his head from side to side. And we had eye contact and he smiled and made a face of utter lust and desire.
By the time my face was dripping with my own spit, he spoke softly: `Put your glasses on, ducks, and then fuck me ducks, fuck my boy fanny. Oooh, please, fuck me ducks!' And I kept on sucking his fanny as I undid my own trousers, pulled my phallus out through the fly in my own white underpants, and then stood up behind this vision of schoolboyhood before me, the white buttocks sticking out between the dark blue of his blazer, the stark white of his underpants, his boyish thighs and the charcoal grey of his crumpled trousers, and the grey socks and shiny black shoes. I put on my glasses, we smiled at each other in the mirror, and then I pressed my glans against his fanny and squeezed out a large glob of pre-cum, rubbing my glans around in it, rubbing it onto his fanny. I squeezed out more and pushed it inside with a finger and then two fingers, all the way in. He whimpered, tight but receptive. I almost ejaculated at the sight of my two fingers sliding in and out between those little buttocks, the anus slick and pink and distended and his whimpers become cooings of urgency, and then I held my phallus in my fingers and pressed it into him. He pulled his buttocks apart as far as he could, his fingertips white with pressure, and then he moaned loudly as I slid into his tight slick heat, his rectum clutching the length of my throbbing member. I grasped those oh-so-narrow hips, and watched in amazement as my large phallus slid in and out between his skinny little buttocks, his white underpants falling to his ankles. The sight of myself in the mirror before this delicate long-haired elf, his face a vision of ecstasy with eyes closed and one fist clenching and unclenching. A mere three thrusts and I had a colossal orgasm, groaning like one suffering exquisite torture as I began to pulse into his fanny. Breathless and gasping, I spurted again and again into his tight heat and squealed as he thrust his fanny back against me. And then I collapsed over his slight clothed body, covering his ears and his cheek and his hair with wild kisses, whimpering sweet nothings into his ears: I love you, duckling, I love you, I love youuuu. And we began to babble sweet nothings to one another: darling duckling (and ducks), dearest, divine duckling (and ducks), sweet, sweetie, sweet duckling (and ducks), sweet-throated, sweet-eyed, sweet-tongued, sweet-scented, sweety pie. And we began to giggle and louder and louder and more and more stupid our amorous cries: precious, honey bunny, sugar, sweetie, lovey dovey, moppet, poppet, sugar lumpy, plummy, popsy wopsy, heavenly, ducky-billy platypussy, quack, quack, fanny Annie, fetching Freddy, frigging Ricky.
`Pull it out, pull it out. I want to lie on my back.' And he sighed with contentment as I slowly slid my phallus out, still hard as steel. Slick with sperm and juices, his fanny remained dilated and I could see the scarlet flesh off his innards with white globs of my sperm. Then his fanny contracted, leaving a pearl of sperm outside. I knelt down sucked his puffy fanny, and again he used his fingers to spread his buttocks, and again I rimmed him and he moaned. His fanny opened and I slid my tongue inside. This was new and it was utterly erotic, the heady scent of his boy fanny intoxicating.
`Again, again, stick it in', and I stood up. He turned round and lay on the dining table, his legs thrown back, his feet in their black shoes above his head, his crumpled trousers round his ankles, with the belt hanging down, and his white underpants, all suspended above his head. His face peering at me from between his knees, his bare thighs and his bare buttocks spread and inviting, his phallus and balls above his inflamed anus. I hesitated as I took in the image, where to begin, where to suck and lick? I sucked his balls, rubbed my face in those silken thighs, and then moved up and mouthed his phallus. It was sticky with semen. I looked at him as I squeezed out a glob.
`I came while you were sucking my arsehole.' And he giggled. `Tee-hee, while you were sucking my boy fanny.' And right yummy it was too. Did he want me to suck it again?
`First a snog ducky.' He pouted his lips, and I moved up between those luscious thighs, ducked my head under the clothes bundles round his ankles. He pulled down his ankles and trapped me with the clothes, so I couldn't move my head back, and we snogged and snogged and snogged.
`It's so saucy when I can smell my fanny on your mouth, ducks, debauched, degenerate darling.' Yes, sexy as hell wasn't it? We lay there, his feet suspended above our heads, his underpants pressing against my neck, and nibbled at each other lips, sucked each other's tongue, kissing each other's face over and over. And then we lay still, cheek to cheek, cooing lightly.
`Now give my fanny a good suck and then stick your fucking thingy in and fuck me again, ducky.' Yes, massa. And soon he was moaning as I probed his anus with my tongue, rubbing my face in the sticky cleavage. He held on to his ankles as he rocked from side to side.
`Stick it in, ducky; stick it in!' And I raised myself up, scooped up pre-cum from his stomach with my fingertips and applied it to his anus. Squeezed more out of his stick-hard willy and into his arse and then again I slid into him, and in near-disbelief buggered that tight little bottom of his. With a soft smile on his face, be moaned and gasped, and I sped up, in and out, in and out, and I watched him ejaculate onto his chin and lesser spurts onto his stomach, and that was the final straw. Again I groaned and gasped and spurted into his hot fanny, unconscious of everything except heat and friction and orgasm. We snogged and snogged and I licked his sperm off his face and my cock slid out of him and I pulled myself up onto the table beside him, and licked the sperm off his chest, his stomach, and then sucked his phallus clean. He sat up and grabbed my phallus.
`It's been up my bum. Can I suck it? Is that disgusting?' It was certainly degenerate and debauched. And down he went, his hair tickling my thighs, and he sucked my glistening cock clean.
`Yum, yum, my fanny and your sperm.' And we snogged and then lay spooning on the dining table, watching ourselves in the mirrors. He was nodding off and I pulled him into bed, and we both fell into sweet sleep, arms and legs entangled and warm.
At ten, Frederic woke me up by rubbing my arsehole with his finger. Did he want to bugger me up the arse?
`One day, ducks, one day, maybe. I don't know. Maybe give it a try, but I'm your duckling, aren't I? tee-hee, you're my duck and I'm your duckling.' And we giggled and I adored him.
`I'm starving. I woke up because I'm starving.' It was a little past ten, so we could have our late dinner.
`I'll bathe and then prepare dinner. I wanna prepare dinner while you have your bath. I want you in a suit and me in my panties, tee-hee, like last time... It's supersexy.' In that case, I didn't want him to bathe. I wanted him as he was, smelling of warm sexy boy who's just made love.
`Made love, ducks, made love. It's so beautiful. You made love to me up the arse.' And we giggled wildly. And he jumped up.
`You go and bathe, and I'll prepare din-dins, all right?' All right.
I drew a bath for myself, something I rarely bothered to do, and put on Nat King Cole. If one wants romance, pop won't do at all. Nat King Cole or Frank Sinatra or The Mills Brothers are the thing, crooning, unless one wants a woman's voice, which I didn't. I went into the kitchen, and there he was in just his white briefs, my checkered apron, and my grey Japanese slippers.
`Out! It's my dinner! I'll come and dress you when it's about ready. Go take a bath!' I hugged him from behind, cupping his lovely little buttocks and kissing him, and then left.
`You can lay the table for me, ducks! Many candles!' And I did, while the bath filled up. Opened the wine and let it stand. The triple silver candelabras from the sideboard were quite enough because they were reflected in the wall mirrors. Dim the lights down low and Nat King Cole and love is in the air to make your heart burst. I left the door to the bathroom open, so I could listen to the music, and sank into the hot water. I was woken from my hot bath reverie by a kiss on the mouth.
`Dinner's soon ready, ducks. Time for me to dry you and dress you.' I rose and sluiced the water off my body with my hands and stepped out to be dried, and then I was led into the bedroom, where he had laid out the clothes I was to wear. He dressed me in white underpants, a white undervest, my rose shirt with French cuffs, my Turk's head cufflinks, dark blue, and my charcoal grey woollen tie with dark blue polka dots, and then my waistcoat and suit, and finally my black brogues. It was a new combination and very good, and it was intensely sweet to be dressed by him, and he polished my glasses, put them carefully on my nose and ears, kissed my nose, and then eau de cologne on my neck and under my earlobes. And we snogged passionately. Nat was singing `Nature Boy', and we both sang along, smiling at each other.
`And then one day,
`A magic day he passed my way
`And while we spoke of many things
`Fools and Kings
`This he said to me:
`"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
`"Is just to love and be loved in return".
`"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
`"Is just to love and be loved in return."'
His arms about my neck and mine about his waist, I lifted him up and squeezed him tight, his bulge pressing against my stomach.
`"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
`"Is just to love and be loved in return."'
We swung about a bit and then I put him down and he adjusted my glasses and my tie.
`You're gorgeous, ducks, you're so damn gorgeous.' And he took my hand and led me into the dining room. In only his white underpants and slippers, he served me. First a salad with French dressing and the kippers and slices of hot potato thrown in, and then quiche heated in the oven, all accompanied by Rioja redwine. As we were tucking into the salad, Frederic said he felt a bit chilly and he ran into my bedroom and came back in my cricket slipover. And there we were, his eyes sparkling, his hair lemon yellow, his boyish arms sticking out of my oversize slipover, which covered was so long on him as to cover his underpants and make it look as if he as naked underneath, and I was bursting with love.
After we'd finished the quiche, we took out the plates and things, and I scooped out seven scoops of ice cream for him in a soup plate and three for me, and then wafers and back, and again he sat in my lap, giving me a hard-on as he wriggled his warm bottom in my lap, and giggles and mouthfuls and kisses, revelling in our propinquity in the mirrors.
`Should I cut my hair?' Why ever?
`People say I look like a girl.' Did Jesus look like a girl? Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull? It was more of the filthy, stupid, disgusting, stereotyping by stupid, narrow-minded, pig-headed busybodies imposing their idiotic views on the world. They were the stuff racists were made of, homophobes and nationalists were made of, male chauvinists and female chauvinists, and... Frederic giggled and put his hand over my mouth.
`All right, all right, ducks. Take it easy, you'll choke on your ice cream.' And we both giggled.
It was an appalling idea. His hair was so beautiful, it made him look like an angel, and the angels in the Bible are male angels. Right? A boy angel. Long hair and beauty and soft hands and slender legs and pretty lips and gorgeous eyes and long eyelashes are not the prerogative of girls. That's just a cultural thing. A recent thing. It's only recently that boys have stopped being an object of beauty. He didn't in any whatsoever way look like a girl. He didn't talk like a girl, he didn't walk like a girl, he didn't sit like a girl, he didn't eat like a girl, he didn't laugh like a girl, he didn't dress like a girl... in short, he didn't resemble a girl at all except to the kind of pig-headed fool who thinks all Chinese and all blacks look the same.
`I'm so skinny.' Rot and rubbish.
`I am, look at me. You can see my ribs.' That was perfectly normal for a boy of his age and build.
`There are no muscles.' Of course there were muscles. Everyone has muscles, even newborn babes.
`Look at my arms, no muscles.' Of course. Angels don't have muscles. A boy of his age and build shouldn't have bulging muscles. That would unnatural. And body builder muscles were just about the most disgusting thing on the planet.
`Why do you contradict everything I complain about?' Because I loved him just the way he was, and I abhorred stereotyping ― boys have to be crewcut and wear loose clothes and are merely handsome like a horse, girls have to have long hair and wear tight clothes and are pretty like a flower. A lot of boys were damn pretty but they didn't look like girls, did they?
`You don't think I look like a girl?' I just told him he didn't look like one except through the eyes of a fool. And I cupped his crotch, it didn't look like a girl's crotch, did it? And his beautiful little bum, it didn't look like a girl's, did it? And his boy fanny? I felt his cock swell in my hand.
`My boy fanny.' And laughed out loud, his lovely, lovely loud laughter. And we hugged and snogged. He was hard as steel and so was I. I rubbed my hand up and down between his creamy thighs. He moaned.
`I want you to suck me off. The man in a suit sucking off the long-haired boy in his white underpants.' How did he want it, standing up or sitting down?
`I sit on the table and you sit on your chair, tee-hee.' We moved my placemat and glass and the bottle of wine and candlestick out of the way and he sat on the table, leaning back on his hands, watching in the mirror. I pressed my face into his crotch, rubbing it in the soft white material. There was a patch of wet through which one could see his glans peeking out from behind his foreskin. And then I manoeuvred his cock out of the fly and wanked him gently.
`My balls too', he whispered. I extracted his balls and squeezed them gently. We kissed, and then I lowered my head and began to suck.
`Can't see anything', he squeaked. His thighs were in the way. He stood up before and I moved my chair back a bit.
`All right. I'll lean on the table... Tee-hee, lay on MacDuff.' And I laid on, my hands up under his underpants behind, fingering his boy fanny, and he caressed my ears, my face, my head, and moaned quietly. I squeezed a nice big glob of pre-cum out of his cock and slid my finger up his boy fanny, and he gasped. And then he grasped my head in his hands and squealed and I tasted him in my mouth. I kept mouthing his glans, sucking him clean, and then pulled away and looked at him. He had a sweet loving smile on his face, and brushed the hair away from my forehead and caressed my face.
`My turn, ducks... You sit in the chair, I sit on the floor.' And he got down on his knees before me and unbuttoned my trousers and pulled my cock out of the fly in my underpants.
`Don't worry, ducks, I won't let it spill. I'll swallow it all.' And he enveloped my glans with his hot mouth. I caressed his silken hair and watched in wonder at the reflection in the mirror. A delicate boy in an oversize cricket slipover, his slender arms resting on my thighs, his slender legs folded, a fine hand cupping my scrotum, another fine hand holding my phallus, and his lemon hair billowing up and down as he moved his hot wet mouth up and down my phallus. I could not see his face, only his pretty nose, and hear his slurping and sucking. It was so beautiful, so unreal, I wanted it to last forever. I didn't want to ejaculate into his mouth but just have him make love to me forever. That beauty, of course, was erotic, so, of course, I ejaculated very soon into his mouth, and true to his word, he gulped it all down, as I gasped, my hands around his head.
When he was once again on my lap, his boyishly slender arms about my neck, we snogged, mouths slippery with sperm, his in mine, and mine in his, and then ours in ours.
`Love me, ducks? Love me tender, love me true?' I hugged him fiercely, almost in tears, for it couldn't always be so lovely, such loveliness couldn't last. And Frank Sinatra sang `It Was a Very Good Year'. We sang along on the first two verses, modified versions that I had written to him in a letter.
`When I was seventeen
`It was a very good year
`It was a very good year for early teen boys
`And soft summer nights
`We'd hide from the lights
`On the cricket green
`When I was seventeen.
`When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year
`It was a very good year for mid-teen boys
`Who came home for half-term,
`With jeans tight, bottoms firm,
`And their flies came undone
`When I was twenty-one.'
I wasn't twenty-one, but `undone' doesn't rhyme with twenty. And I hadn't modified the remaining verses, didn't want to think that far into the future.